


Ride Out the Storm

by OnaDacora



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Inquisitor and Herald are Two Separate People, M/M, POV Multiple, Romance, Slow Burn, Social Anxiety, Twins
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-26
Updated: 2015-10-21
Packaged: 2018-04-23 12:20:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 30,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4876579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnaDacora/pseuds/OnaDacora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Felen and Firiel Lavellan are twins, bound to the Inquisition through Firiel's Mark and the title of Herald of Andraste.</p><p>Firiel is a Mage, meant to become Keeper and lead her clan. She has always been cautioned about the dangers of Templars, so when she starts having feelings for Commander Cullen, she isn't quite sure what to do. Being with him could mean giving up her place with Clan Lavellan forever.</p><p>Felen is a Warrior, a hunter and protector. The last thing he expects is Dorian, a man who by all accounts Felen should hate on principle. He also doesn't trust Dorian's intentions, having been hurt by charmers like him before. What he doesn't realize is they are more similar than he thinks.</p><p>(Story generally following Canon except for the romances, basically my excuse to explore two romances at once and incorporate sibling relationships and how they both handle the Inquisition. MAY end up rated Explicit, if I can work up the nerve.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

They had always been together.

Felen and Firiel came into the world, squalling, barely three minutes apart. Their parents used to joke that Firiel couldn't bear being left behind and rushed out to rejoin her brother. They couldn't sleep unless they were swaddled side by side. Firiel learned how to crawl first, and Felen howled every time she'd wander away until he mastered it himself.

Felen started speaking first. Everyone expected Firiel to follow soon after _—_ as they always did, when one of them mastered a new skill _—_ but she remained silent. If she wanted something she'd point and make a noise, and her brother would speak for her. It wasn't until one day, in the middle of the night when her brother was asleep, that her parents were shocked to realize that she _could_ speak as she asked them very politely for some water. After weeks of scolding Felen and coaxing Firiel, they finally convinced her to speak for herself from now on.

They were five when their parents were killed by bandits. Both of them were hunters, sworn to protect the clan, doing their duty. Firiel didn't understand. Sometimes their parents used to go hunting for food or supplies, so she kept asking the Keeper when they'd be back. Felen was angry. He'd bite and kick and scratch, shouting and fighting with anyone that came near, except his sister.

They were nine when Firiel's magic came. They listened as the Keeper, hahren, and other elders spoke about what to do with her, clasping hands and pretending to be asleep even as Firiel trembled and bit her lip to stop her tears. The Keeper already had a First and a Second, and she knew that there was no place for her to stay.

When it was decided that she would be given to Clan Lavellan to become Keeper Deshanna's First, Felen went too. The warleader tried to convince him to stay, not wanting to lose a promising new hunter, but Felen had none of it. He would remain with his sister.

Firiel had always been the quieter, shyer of the two of them, and joining a new clan wasn't easy for her. Sometimes, when the pressure was too much and she couldn't bear to be around people any longer, she fled into the trees and climbed up as high as the branches would hold her. Felen started calling her Da'adahl.

Felen continued to train as a hunter, favoring the broadsword over the bow. He channeled his anger into a drive to protect his sister and their new clan, the people she would eventually lead. Firiel started calling him Da'mi.

Firiel was fourteen when she first kissed a boy. He was an apprentice to the head crafter, learning the secrets of ironbark. He was seventeen, with the vallaslin of June fresh on his face. She thought it was love, until she realized that the excitement of secret kisses and exploring each other in the dark didn't make up for how dreadfully boring he was when the passion and _newness_ started to fade.

Felen was sixteen when he first kissed a boy, realizing years earlier that he had no interest in girls like other boys his age. He was a fellow hunter in training, lithe and agile, cocky with a bow. His calloused fingers made Felen feel things that he never could have imagined on his own, taught him things he never realized he didn't know about himself. He thought it was love, until he found him using those fingers on a girl whose name he didn't know and didn't want to learn.

They were eighteen when they received their vallaslin. The Keeper kept them apart during the preparation and meditation, insisting that they must choose their patron deities independent of one another. When they were finally allowed to see each other again, the tattooing finished, they laughed when they saw that they had both chosen Mythal. The fine lines of golden yellow upon their rich olive skin matched the honey-colored eyes they both shared. The only difference was the continuation of the tattoos under Firiel's eyes to set them apart.

They were twenty-five when Keeper Deshanna told Firiel she would be sending her to a place known as the Temple of Sacred Ashes to spy on a meeting between the human Divine and the warring factions of the Mages and Templars. Unlike their original clan, Clan Lavellan tried to keep themselves familiar of the goings-on of humans, certain that the outcome of such huge events would have an impact even on the Dalish. Felen was to accompany her across the Waking Sea (because there would be no stopping him from going even if they tried) and see her safely home again once the business was completed.

Firiel left her brother in the woods outside the Temple, going to do her work alone. A single Dalish woman might be overlooked, but a pair of elves would draw more attention. Begrudgingly he had agreed, and stayed behind.

So Felen waited for his sister to return.

He had never heard an explosion before. When he first heard that terrible sound that shook the earth beneath his feet, for a fleeting moment he thought he was hearing thunder. Some kind of sudden storm. But as his eyes searched the sky for clouds instead he saw a terrible green tear in the sky, and he realized that something was horribly wrong. It only took him a few seconds to realize that it was right above the Temple.

Felen ran. He ran for the edge of the woods, to where he knew he'd be able to see the Temple clearly. As he ran he prayed to any god who would listen. To Mythal to keep his sister safe, to Ghilan'nain to help guide her safely back to him, to Falon'Din and his twin Dirthamen, to Andruil, Elgar'nan, Sylaise and June, even to Fen'Harel that maybe this was just some kind of trick.

The Temple of Sacred Ashes was destroyed. Utterly. In its place was crumbling stone and an otherworldly green light.

He couldn't breathe. His blood pounded in his ears and it felt as though his stomach had bottomed-out. He fell, shaking, to his knees.

Alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can view some screenshots of Firiel and Felen [HERE](http://onadacora.tumblr.com/post/129682391550/the-lavellan-twins-firiel-and-felen-im-actually).


	2. Firiel

When Firiel stepped out of the tiny cabin she had woken up in at Haven, her first instinct was to go back inside and hide under the covers. There were too many eyes on her, watching her as she made her way quickly to the Chantry to find Seeker Cassandra. She heard whispers, men and women speaking of the Maker and Andraste. Looking to the sky in an attempt to distract herself from the press of too many people around her and the way their eyes seemed to prickle over her skin, she found little comfort in the ever-present sight of the Breach. She tore her eyes from it, clenching her left hand into a tight fist.

She wished suddenly, desperately —and not for the first time— that Felen was with her.

Before closing the rift directly below the Breach to stabilize it, she had tried to ask whoever she could if they had seen her brother. No one had. But apparently she'd been unconscious for three days since then, maybe he had turned up?

She set her gaze upon the Chantry. _But first I suppose I should speak to the Seeker._

Chancellor Roderick was waiting for her as soon as the entered the room. Firiel recoiled as he demanded that she be taken —once again— as a prisoner, but Cassandra quickly cut him off and dismissed the guards from the room. Firiel could do little else but watch as Cassandra and Leliana argued with the Chancellor. Apparently the remnants of memory that had echoed through the rift beneath the Breach had been enough to convince Cassandra of her innocence, because much to Firiel's surprise the Seeker was defending her against the accusations of her guilt.

Creators, this was all some kind of terrible mistake. She wished that she could remember exactly what happened, but everything before waking up inside Haven's dungeons was hazy and fragmented.

“Providence. The Maker sent her to us in our darkest hour,” Cassandra was saying, and something about that drew Firiel's focus back to the conversation.

“No, that's not...” she began, her voice too quiet. Cassandra looked at her, not unkindly but slightly impatient. Firiel cleared her throat. “I mean, I'm Dalish. Why would your Maker send _me_?” She twisted her fingers together, glancing down at the floor.

She wasn't good with strangers, she never had been. How was she supposed to become Keeper when she could barely even bring herself to speak up to these three humans?

“The Maker does as he wills, it is not for me to say,” Cassandra said. “Humans are not the only people with an interest in the fate of the world.”

“The Breach remains, and your Mark is still our only hope of closing it,” Leliana added. That at least Firiel could understand. The Mark is what had her tied up in this mess, not the Maker.

Chancellor Roderick continued to complain, but Cassandra cut him off, placing a book firmly on the table in front of her. She spoke of an Inquisition, calling it into being even as the Chancellor watched on in growing disgust. The two women looked to Firiel as they spoke of tracking down whoever opened the Breach, and she could feel herself becoming locked into this new Inquisition no matter how she felt about it. So long as the Mark was on her hand, with its connection to the Breach and the rifts, she was obligated to see this through.

The weight of this revelation was heavy on Firiel's shoulders, heavier than the future burden of Keeper ever felt. _Ma halani, Mythal. What have I gotten myself into?_ This had started out as a conflict between mages and Templars, something that only barely involved her by coincidence of her being a mage. But being Dalish kept her far removed from the humans and their Circles, products of the Andrastian faith. Templars were the boogeymen of her childhood, threatening to spirit her away to stone towers if she wandered too far from the aravels. Now this was a matter of a hole torn in the sky, rifts, demons, and the green Mark on her hand that tied it all together somehow.

She was distantly aware of Chancellor Roderick leaving the room as she stared down at her hand and the shifting green glow under her skin on her palm and the back of her hand. Firiel looked up as she realized that Cassandra was asking her a question, but before she could ask her to repeat it, she heard raised, male voices outside the room. The door hadn't quite closed after the Chancellor's departure, so she could hear what was being said quite clearly.

“You cannot just go barging in there, give me a moment and _wait here_.” A Ferelden accent she could have sworn she had heard before.

The door opened and in strode the blonde man she'd seen before on their way to the Breach. Cassandra had referred to him as their Commander, he'd been holding off demons from a rift with his men before she had been able to reach them and close it. He closed the door behind him and looked a bit harried as he shook his head and rubbed the back of his neck.

“Cullen?” Cassandra asked, looking surprised at the interruption.

Cullen didn't look at the Seeker, however, his eyes —golden brown, Firiel was suddenly aware— met hers instead. “Taking another look at you, I daresay the man is telling the truth. There's someone here insisting that he's your brother, from what my men have said he's been raising a bit of a fuss for the past three days while we were waiting for you to regain consciousness.”

It was as though someone had shoved their hand in her chest and squeezed. Could it really be Felen? Firiel darted past Cullen, ignoring his noise of protest as she wrenched the door open.

There he was, standing on the other side of two guards clad in green. Though impossible for the two of them to be identical, Felen was the spitting image of his sister, and vice versa. They had the same dark olive skin, bright yellow eyes, and rich brown hair. Even the golden shade of their vallaslin was the same, and the intricate branches of the tattoos on their foreheads (with hers just the tiniest bit more embellished by the Keepers insistence, in order to separate them at least a little bit). They had the same heart-shaped face and high cheekbones, the same wide, rounded nose. But he was a full head taller than her, his hair pulled back into a half-ponytail while hers was pulled back into a long braid.

“Felen!”

His head jerked up as he heard her voice, and as their eyes met Firiel thought she might burst into tears she was so relieved to see him there. The guards had been distracted by her voice and Felen was able to push past them easily, sweeping his sister up into a crushing hug. She threw her arms around his neck, grinning. After a moment they pulled away, hands on each others shoulders as they pressed their foreheads together.

“When the Temple exploded, I thought... Fenedhis, I thought you _died_ ,” he said, pulling his hands from her shoulders and cupping her head. “They wouldn't let me see you! Firiel what happened up there? The people are saying you were the only survivor.”

Firiel closed her eyes, fingers tightening her grip on him. “I don't remember. I came out of the Fade, through a rift where the explosion was. That's where they found me. Da'mi if they hadn't I _would_ be dead. This thing on my hand—” She suddenly pulled away, remembering the Mark. She jerked her Marked hand away from her brother, looking from her hand to where she had touched him, and seeing that nothing had happened to him. She shuddered. “This Mark, it has something to do with the Breach. I can... I can close the rifts in the Fade.”

Felen was gaping at her, staring at the shifting green glow under her skin. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides before he spoke. “I'd heard tales, but it sounded so impossible...” He tore his gaze from her hand, meeting her eyes. “Are you all right?”

Crossing her arms over her chest, she shrugged her shoulders. “I... don't know. With the Breach stable the Mark isn't getting _worse_ at least.”

“What does this all mean? Can we... go home?”

Firiel realized in that moment how _exhausted_ her brother looked. There were dark circles under his eyes, and now that the relief of seeing her had washed over him the adrenaline that had been keeping him going seemed to be rapidly fading. _I'm afraid our troubles are just beginning. You think that now that I'm safe this is the end, but this is the start of something bigger than us._

She was suddenly aware of three other sets of eyes upon her. Cassandra, Leliana, and Cullen were all quietly watching their exchange, and she realized that her answer wouldn't just be important to her brother. _They_ needed an answer as well.

“I... _we_ need to stay, Felen. This Mark is the key to sealing the Breach. I can't just leave and pretend I'm not already involved,” she said, _wishing_ it wasn't true, that they could go home. Firiel looked up to meet Cassandra's eyes, surprised to find the smallest trace of a smile on the woman's lips. “This new Inquisition needs me.”

She could tell Felen wanted to argue, but couldn't come up with anything to say. He grimaced at the three humans that still stood silent, then gave Firiel a pleading look before realizing that she was determined to help. Maybe it was habit from knowing that one day she would lead Clan Lavellan, but Felen often conceded to her plans.

“If we're going to be staying,” he said slowly, looking over at the others again. “Perhaps you should introduce me to the leaders of this operation.”

“We don't have a true leader, yet,” Cassandra cut in. “We will eventually need to name someone as our Inquisitor. But that is another matter. I am Seeker Cassandra, this is Sister Leliana, and Commander Cullen.”

Felen shook his head. “I understand 'Seeker' and 'Commander', but why would a Chantry Sister—”

“She is our spymaster,” Cassandra said.

Leliana sighed and shook her head. “If we are to do this now, Josie ought to be here,” she said, walking to the door to get the attention of one of the guards. “Can you bring Lady Josephine here, please?”

“Yes ma'am!” the guard said, saluting smartly before departing.

While they all waited for the guard to return, Firiel noticed that Cassandra was looking between herself and Felen, and something in her eyes had gone soft. The Seeker hesitated when she noticed that the elven woman was watching her. “I'm glad your brother returned to you. I know you were concerned for his safety.”

Firiel just nodded, wondering why Cassandra sounded so _wistful_. “Thank you.”

 

* * *

 

“I don't like this, Firiel. This is a shemlen mess, let _them_ deal with it.”

They were in the middle of Haven, having escaped from the Chantry after an hour of debate about what they should do about seeking help regarding the Breach. Felen had gained a second wind somewhere, probably around the time Cullen suggested seeking out the Templars for help. For a moment she was afraid that the Commander was going to have her brother thrown out, but Cullen had looked at her —caught her eyes with his and held them— and unbelievably she saw him visibly swallow whatever retort he was going to throw at Felen, and took her brother's furious refusal in stride. Instead he asked her for _her_ opinion, as though she had any business making decisions for the Inquisition. He frowned slightly when she agreed with the opinion to seek out the mages —being one herself— but he didn't press further. They couldn't exactly make the final decision yet anyway, not with neither group willing to speak with them.

Firiel had been tasked with seeking out someone named Mother Giselle in the Hinterlands, but for now she was more interested in taking a moment to breathe. They wouldn't be leaving until the next morning anyway.

She gave her brother a sidelong look. “Don't call them that,” she said, taking hold of Felen's arm and pulling him to a halt. “This isn't the time for your anger, this entire situation is _bigger_ than that.”

He frowned, looking away. “This wasn't supposed to happen. We should be going _home_.”

“I know, Da'mi.”

Felen scowled, pulling his arm out of her grip. “Don't talk to me like I'm still a _child_ ,” he snapped.

He was in a foul mood, from a toxic combination of exhaustion, worry, and too much information piled on top of him all at once. He wasn't mad at _her_ , not really, but Firiel knew her brother. He'd been resisting their childhood nicknames for each other more than before, and she hadn't thought about it before the name slipped from her tongue.

But just because she understood didn't mean she felt like tolerating it. “Then stop _acting_ like one.”

“Do you have any idea what I've been through? Firiel, I spent _days_ thinking you were _dead_. And now you're willingly throwing yourself into _more_ danger?” he snapped, fear bleeding through the edges of his anger.

“What do you want me to say, Felen?” she snapped back, and suddenly everything she had been through over the past few days seemed to wash over her all at once. Her hands were trembling as she clutched them to her chest, tears springing unbidden to her eyes, hot and angry and scared. “I woke up in a dungeon, shackled and surrounded by armed guards. This Mark on my hand was getting worse every time the Breach flared up, and it felt like it was going to tear me apart.” The anger on Felen's face was already gone, but she couldn't stop, couldn't dam the flood of it rushing out of her. A crackle of electricity prickled up her arms, her own magic responding to her uncontrolled emotions. “I fought _demons_ and nearly died to stabilize the Breach, and I still couldn't close it. And now I'm the _only one_ who can help deal with the rifts.

“I'm sorry that you were scared, that you grieved for me, but you have _no idea_ what _I_ have been through.”

As the tears finally slipped silently down her cheeks, Felen reached out an took hold of her shoulders, keeping her in place when she tried to shrug out of his grip. “I'm sorry,” he said, eyebrows drawn together. She hid her face in her hands and pressed her forehead to his chest, his arms circling her shoulders. “Don't cry, I'm sorry.”

But she cried, biting back her sobs until she finally felt like some of the stress that had been weighing her down had sloughed off. As she sniffled into her brother's shirt and fought to hastily dry her face, she became distantly aware of the fact that they were still in the middle of Haven. When Firiel pulled herself out of Felen's grasp and looked around, suddenly all the people around them seemed incredibly preoccupied by one thing or another.

She was making a wonderful impression. These people, what were they calling her? The Herald of Andraste? _Well, this Herald of Andraste is now a sopping mess._

Suddenly, a red handkerchief was being pressed into her hand, and Varric had appeared, seemingly out of nowhere. Well, not out of nowhere, she just hadn't been paying attention. “So I hear we'll be heading to the Hinterlands tomorrow,” he said, pointedly not remarking on the state of her swollen eyes.

Firiel dried her face and handed the handkerchief back to Varric, who took it silently and stuffed it back into his pocket. He gave her a patient smile as she collected herself and cleared her throat. “You're coming with me?”

“Of course, can't let you, the Seeker, and Chuckles have all the fun,” he said, winking at her.

She gave the dwarf a weak smile, then noticed the confused look on her twin's face. “Felen, this is Varric Tethras. Varric, this is my twin brother, Felen.”

Felen blinked, giving her an incredulous stare. “The author? As in, _The Tale of the Champion_ , Varric Tethras?”

“One and the same. I take it you've read the book then? Didn't realize I was popular with the Dalish,” he said, raising an eyebrow.

“We _are_ Marchers, even if we're Dalish,” Firiel said, which made Varric laugh.

 

* * *

 

She couldn't sleep, despite the weariness she could feel deep into her bones. Felen was sleeping, snoring quietly, in a nest of blankets on the floor of her small borrowed cabin. He'd already been out for an hour while she tossed and turned, and though part of her was glad he was getting rest —he desperately needed it— another, louder part was bitter and jealous. Firiel wrapped herself in a blanket and crept quietly outside.

Haven was quiet. Torches served to keep some of the darkness away, but the sky was black and scattered with stars. But the Breach was still there, ominous and green. If she turned away she could pretend, maybe, that it was just another night. Snow and gravel crunched beneath her still-unfamiliar boots, and suddenly she felt a bit homesick for the feel of leaves and grass under bare feet.

They were supposed to be heading home to Clan Lavellan with a report about the Conclave. If things had gone as they should, would they already be crossing the Waking Sea? Would she be teasing Felen about getting seasick again?

She wondered, briefly, if they'd ever see Keeper Deshanna again.

Firiel bit her lip, banishing such hopeless thoughts as she passed the night guards that stood at Haven's front gates. One of them met her eyes and bowed his head briefly. “Herald,” he said quietly.

_Stop. I'm not from your Maker. Please don't put your faith in me._

But Firiel gave him a shallow nod anyway. It wouldn't do anyone any good for her to fight every time someone called her Herald.

She picked her way past the soldiers' tents, headed to the frozen lake. Far enough from the tents for some privacy, but not so far that her voice wouldn't reach someone if she shouted. She wasn't ignorant enough to think that there was no risk wandering off in the middle of the night.

A fallen tree near the lakeside made for a comfortable enough seat. Firiel drew the blanket tighter under her chin, staring out over the shining, almost-black surface of the frozen water. A soft breeze swept by, scattering a light dusting of snow across the ice. She shivered, wishing she had brought something heavier to keep her warm. She could have conjured herself a fire, but she didn't want to break the soothing darkness with the light.

The cold air was invigorating in her lungs as she took a deep breath, exhaling slowly and feeling refreshed, _purified_ even. Alone in the quiet darkness, she was able to smooth her frayed edges.

She was feeling so much better, that she couldn't even bring herself to be upset when she heard the sound of footsteps crunching through the snow behind her.

Firiel glanced over her shoulder, expecting perhaps to see Felen. Her twin had a knack of finding her whenever she ran off to be alone, be it by a frozen lake or up a tree as was her habit. She was surprised to see, instead, Commander Cullen. He was out of his armor, though he still wore his black and red furred mantle —in this cold she found herself feeling slightly envious of its warmth. But without the armor he seemed a bit smaller, more personable. Less, she had to admit, like a Templar. _Ex-Templar_ , she reminded herself, quickly. _He said he_ used _to be one. Besides, there's no Circles to carry me off to anymore, even if he wanted to._ Not that she thought he _did_.

He hesitated when their eyes met, stopping a few paces away from her. He cleared his throat. “One of my men said he saw you come this way. I just wanted to make sure you were all right.”

“He got you out of bed just to tell you I wandered outside?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh, no, I was... Well, I was already outside,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck and glancing away.

“I didn't know that the Commander took the night watch.”

“I don't. I just couldn't sleep,” he said, looking back at her. “And the night air helps clear my head.”

“That makes two of us,” she said, offering him a faint smile.

He gave a small huff of a laugh. “Yes, well, I hope I didn't disturb you.”

“You didn't, Commander, I appreciate you checking on me,” she said, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

“Please, you needn't stand on ceremony out here. Cullen is fine.” Out here, alone, in the dark.

“Cullen,” she repeated, feeling his name in her mouth. “You can join me if you want. My fallen log is your fallen log.”

That drew out an unexpectedly wide smile, and he ducked his head in silent acceptance. Firiel scooted over to offer him more space, and as he sat he left a respectable distance between them. Silence settled over them. They looked out over the frozen lake together, and Firiel found herself unsure of what to say. The last thing she wanted to do was start talking about mages and Templars, or the Inquisition, and definitely not the Breach that hovered ever-watchful in the sky. But what else did they have in common? What could she say to this human who worried about her enough to come check on her in the middle of the night?

 _Worried about you, or the Mark on your hand?_ an insidious voice asked, in the back of her mind.

She sighed, right as Cullen cleared his throat loudly. They glanced at each other and he gave her a sheepish grin, looking away and rubbing the back of his neck.

“I'm sorry, I must seem like poor company,” he said.

Firiel was about to reply when a brief gust of wind passed them by, making her hunch her shoulders and draw her blanket closer with a shiver. Cullen's brows drew together in concern.

“You're cold,” he said. He reached for the mantle on his shoulders, pulling it. “Here, you can take this—”

“No, I couldn't, what about you?” she blurted out, surprised.

He ignored her protests, reaching around her to draw the fur close around her neck. Their eyes met, and she was suddenly aware of how _warm_ it was. Not just because of the fur, but also from the heat from his body. A few seconds passed with his hands holding the mantle close around her. His lips parted (there was a scar there, on his upper lip, and she wondered where he had got it), and she thought maybe he was about to say something. They were close; _too_ close. Suddenly seeming to remember himself, he pulled back quickly, looking away. Firiel's cheeks felt as warm as the rest of her, wrapped in Cullen's cloak.

“Don't worry about me,” he said, breaking the awkward silence. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I grew up in Ferelden, South of here, actually. It gets colder here than in the Free Marches.”

“And that makes you immune to the cold?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. She hoped he didn't notice the slight waver in her voice.

“Heh, not exactly,” he said with a wry twist of his mouth. It tugged on the scar, she noticed. “As a Templar, we had to train against things like extreme heat and cold. Nothing like taking a full blast of Winter's Grasp to the face to change your perspective on cold.”

Firiel's face fell as she was reminded so bluntly of what he was. Used to be. _Templar_. She leaned away slightly, without thinking, relaxing her grip on the fur that brushed her cheeks.

Cullen's smile faded, perhaps realizing his mistake. He rose to his feet abruptly, stepping back —giving her space, she realized. “I should go,” he said, looking back towards Haven. “I'll need some sleep if I want to make it through tomorrow dealing with the raw recruits.”

She pulled the mantle from her shoulders, holding it back out to him. He took it, deliberately careful of his hands, and shrugged it back into place.

“You should get some rest too, Herald,” he said. Herald, he called her, not Firiel. “You have a long day ahead of you as well.”

As he turned to go, she blurted out, “No.” When Cullen paused and glanced over his shoulder, she shook her head. “Call me Firiel, not Herald. You want me to call you Cullen, I want you to call me by my name, too.”

His lips twitched, and he ducked his head quickly. “All right, Firiel. Have a good night, and please go back inside before you get too cold.”

“Is that a command?”

Cullen shook his head, his mouth now hidden behind the fur at his shoulder. But she could see the crinkling in the corners of his eyes. “A suggestion,” he said simply, and he turned away, pressing forward back to Haven.

She realized, with surprise, that she was sorry to see him go.

 


	3. Felen

A small crowd had gathered at the gates of Haven to see them off. No, to see Firiel off. _The Herald of Andraste_.

What a joke.

Felen sat, somewhat awkwardly, on his borrowed horse, separated from his sister by about twenty humans, a handful of bare-faced elves, and a couple of dwarves. None of them seemed to notice the way her face was drawn tight, the smile almost a grimace. Couldn't they see how uncomfortable she was? Even across the distance he could see the way her hands gripped the reins of her horse too tightly, the dark skin of her hands gone pale over her knuckles.

His jaw clenched.

“Herald!” someone from the crowd cried out, over the murmur of too many voices.

Felen made a noise in the back of his throat, unable to resist the frustration building in his chest. “Herald of Andraste,” he spat, under his breath, “what are these shems on about?”

“Let the humans see her that way, it will help the cause of the fledgling Inquisition to have your sister as its figurehead,” said a calm, steady voice.

Felen turned in the saddle, and beside him was the bare-faced, bald elf. Clearly not Dalish, but he didn't strike him as from the city either. He didn't sit like one, too much pride in the straightness of his back and the tilt of his cleft chin. He'd seen him before, had been told his name... _Solas_. His name was Solas. How fitting, that his name should mean 'pride'.

Felen scowled. “I don't care about the Inquisition, or this war between the mages and Templars. I just want to keep her safe.”

Solas raised an eyebrow. “A typical response to be expected from a Dalish, refusing to involve themselves in the rest of the world.” Felen bristled, gritting his teeth. “I see why your sister was sent to the Conclave and not _you_.”

He willed himself not to rise to the bait. “They don't care that she doesn't believe in their Andraste or their Maker? They'll still make her out as some kind of holy woman?”

Solas's gaze shifted to Firiel. “Indeed. It is enough that _they_ believe. She gives them hope, let them have it.”

“A false hope.”

“Better than fear, I suppose.”

“Better than them wanting to hang her and blame her for killing their Divine,” Felen capitulated, begrudgingly.

“Indeed.”

Finally someone was shooing away the crowd. They drifted away, and as the people scattered Felen saw that it was Cullen —the  _Templar—_  that had ordered them to leave. The Commander turned to Firiel, resting a gloved hand on the neck of her horse as he looked up at her with a frustratingly obvious expression of _concern_. Felen didn't like it. He found that he liked it even less when Firiel's face actually relaxed and she _smiled_ at the human.

He should have been happy that someone had helped her where he couldn't. As much as he wanted to, Felen couldn't run them off without angering basically the entire Inquisition he had gotten himself roped into. Maybe if it had been Cassandra (who was just watching it all from her place at Firiel's side) or even Varric (who had yet to make an appearance) that had gone to her aid he'd feel more comfortable about it.

He didn't much care for Cullen to begin with. He found he was liking him even less the longer the Commander gazed up at his sister.

“If you keep glowering like that your face is going to get stuck that way.”

Felen recognized Varric's voice easily, after spending the better part of two hours talking to the dwarf yesterday. He was easy to talk to (even Firiel had taken to him almost effortlessly and that was rare for her) and even easier to like. But that didn't stop him from shooting Varric a scowl.

“There must be something about elves with big swords, carrying all that weight around all the time must make you grumpy,” he continued with a smirk. “Though I think Fenris still has you beat.”

When Felen didn't say anything in response, Varric sighed and gave a dramatic shrug from atop his own mount.

“So what did Curly do to encourage such a magnificent display of disgust?” Varric asked, sounding a bit more cheerful than he ought to.

“Nothing,” he lied.

Felen could have sworn he heard a quiet chuff of a laugh from Solas's direction, but if the other elf suspected anything he didn't say so.

“So you _were_ aiming that look at Cullen,” the dwarf said mildly, stroking his chin and raising an eyebrow as if trying to solve an amusing puzzle.

Felen grit his teeth. Had he fallen into some sort of trap?

“For what it's worth, Curly isn't so bad.”

“I read your book, Varric. I know what happened while he was Knight-Captain in Kirkwall—”

“Then you'll know that he was a surprising voice of reason while everyone was going bat-shit crazy,” Varric cut in. He sighed and held up his hands in a placating gesture at the foul look that hadn't left Felen's face. “ _Look_ , I'm not here to be his damn fanclub or even try to change your mind. I'm just saying maybe you should give the guy a chance instead of only seeing what he _used_ to be.”

* * *

 

Faced with the reality of the war between the mages and the Templars, Felen had to admit to himself that he never realized it was as bad as it was. Maybe this was some of the worst of it, so close to the Breach and the site of the Divine's death, but even so, he understood all at once why Keeper Deshanna had wanted to keep an eye on all of this.

He felt like a stubborn ass for being so foolish before. This wanton destruction and loss of life formed a heavy lump in his chest.

It was hard to imagine how the Inquisition was supposed to convince any of these people to just stop _fighting_ for long enough to maybe help with the real, physical, ever-present threat that hung over them all. So far all their interactions with the rival factions had been kill or be killed, with no time to try and talk sense into either party.

So Firiel had them turn their attention onto the people caught in the middle, namely the residents of a small village outside of Redcliffe known simply as the Crossroads. That was where they found Mother Giselle, helping the wounded. Firiel had her escorted back to Haven ahead of them, so she could help Leliana find more members of the Chantry sympathetic to their cause. They stayed at the Crossroads for two days, making sure that Inquisition soldiers were there to fortify the village as best they could and helping the villagers with things such as food and other supplies.

He could see his sister starting to wear thin. The constant press of pain and fear and desperation all around her, seeking her out for hope from the Herald of Andraste, emptying her as they took and took without realizing that they were chipping her away. Felen was afraid to intervene, hearing Solas's words in his head that these people needed to see Firiel as this Herald that they wanted. And she was trying so hard to do everything that she could (because as much as it drained her she wanted to help) to keep up the illusion that she was fine. If the others noticed the gradual change in Firiel they didn't say anything, didn't tell her not to push herself.

But Felen knew that this needed to stop. Not stop helping, but that some of the burden needed to be lifted from her shoulders. She needed space to breathe, or soon she'd be up the tallest tree in the Hinterlands and none of them would be able to get her down again.

So when Corporal Vale was waiting for them first thing in the morning on the third day, Felen decided that enough was enough.

“Herald,” the Corporal began, not even bothering to look up from his papers when their ragtag group stumbled still bleary-eyed from their tents. “We've report of a rift about two miles to the Southeast of here, according to some new refugees that arrived in the middle of the night. There's also been some more questions about feeding everyone now that more are coming to us after hearing about the Inquisition's presence here. And this morning we received word from Sister Leliana, ah, _gently_ reminding you to seek out Horsemaster Dennet. Oh, and she also says that Mother Giselle arrived safely in Haven, your Worship.”

Felen could see Firiel trying to muster up the will to respond, the way she wasn't even looking at Vale properly but the space around him. Her hands twisted around the handle of her staff. She was about ready to bolt.

She jumped when Felen rested his hand on her shoulder, and he ignored the pop of static that stung his hand at the contact. That alone was enough reassurance that he was doing the right thing by stepping in; she was wound far too tight.

“Herald,” Felen said, the title sounding awkward and unfamiliar in his mouth. “If I may?”

Firiel's golden eyes were wide with surprise as she looked up at him, the lines of her vallaslin bunched on her forehead as her eyebrows shot up. His voice had also caught Corporal Vale's attention, the man finally looking up from the reports in his hands. After a beat, Firiel gave her brother a nod.

He gave her a curt nod in return, but kept his hand on her shoulder as he spoke to Vale. “The Herald and our companions will attend to the rift.” _Because she's the only one that can._ “In regards to the food, do your men know anything about setting snares or finding edible plants, Corporal?”

To the man's credit, Vale only gave Firiel the quickest of looks before giving Felen his entire attention, going so far to tilt his body ever so slightly to face him fully. “Not so much, that I'm aware of. Most of them are just soldiers.”

“Then I'll stay here and show your men what I know.” He felt his sister stiffen slightly, but she made no audible protest. “Once the Herald has finished with the rift, we can all meet up back here and go find Horsemaster Dennet together.”

Corporal Vale only hesitated for a moment before giving a curt nod, and a slightly surprised, “Yes, ser.”

After the Corporal left, he caught Cassandra giving him an appraising look. After a moment wondering what exactly she was seeing, she gave him a wry half-smile. “That was well-handled.”

“Thank you,” he answered, a little stiffly. “Take care of my sister for me.”

Varric let out a low chuckle. “Don't worry, Guard Dog. We'll bring her back in one piece.”

_So I've been finally graced with a nickname? Wonderful._

As the others went to gather their things, Firiel took hold of his hand and turned to face him. She couldn't quite meet his eyes, looking down at their hands instead. “Thank you for handling that.”

“It's fine,” he answered, quickly.

She shook her head. “It's just been—”

“I know.”

“I'm not used to—”

“Really, it's fine.”

“ _Felen_ ,” she said with an exasperated huff, finally tilting her head to look up at him with a frown.

“ _Firiel,_ ” he mimicked back to her, fighting a smile with a forced scowl.

“You are the _worst_ brother,” she said, shoving his chest and losing her fight against a grin. He was so relieved to see her smile, to regain some of herself that he smiled too. “But I love you.”

He flushed, and his embarrassed grimace made her laugh. “Yeah, well, make sure you don't get caught in an explosion while you're gone this time, okay? Cassandra has a shield, you let her stand in the front.”

“I'll be safe. And you be safe too,” she insisted, standing up on her toes and pulling him down by the front of his leather and steel Dalish-made armor. She planted a quick kiss on his cheek.

“I'll just be teaching these sh—” he caught himself, old habits still ingrained in the pattern of his speech. “ _Soldiers_ how to make proper snares and not poison themselves with wild plants. How hard can it be?”

 

* * *

 

Teaching the soldiers turned out to be among the least of his problems. The _real_ issue turned out to be the biggest bear he had ever seen in his entire life.

They had stumbled upon it while he led the men and women through a copse of trees while looking for plants, and he was so distracted by what he was saying that he had missed the telltale signs of a _huge horrifying bear_ nearby. Some hunter _he_ was.

Once they had killed the beast Felen couldn't stop himself from asking if perhaps a rift had done something to it to make it so large. A man just clapped him on the shoulder, laughed, and said that it had been a perfectly normal bear, for the Frostback Mountains anyway.

The smaller black bears of the Free Marches never got that big.

 _Creators_.

But the villagers were more than happy to take the vast quantity of bear meat off their hands, and in that regard he was happy to have helped. More wary of signs of wildlife, Felen continued his lesson and was pleasantly surprised when the soldiers caught on rather quickly. Maybe it had to do with facing down an enemy —a massive, hairy, clawed and fanged enemy— together, but after that they seemed to look at him as more than just a pair of pointed ears and yellow tattoos. Or perhaps it was that _he_ was willing to see _them_ see him better. Or even a little bit of both.

When Firiel and the others returned (unscathed and Firiel looking much better for having spent some time away from the neediness of the villagers, even if that time was spent killing demons), they joined Felen and the Inquisition soldiers for a lunch of their spoils: bear meat steaks and wild tubers. As they ate, Felen and the soldiers —even Corporal Vale— recounted their incident with the bear.

“I daresay your brother has inspired the men and women nearly as much as you've given them hope, your Worship,” Corporal Vale added, in all sincerity. “Having the two of you here has been more help than you may understand. I know that once you've seen to Dennet you'll have to head back to Haven soon —you've more important things to worry about than these poor souls here— but I wanted you to know how much your presence —all of you— has been appreciated.” When he finished speaking there was an awkward flush that stained his neck more so than his cheeks, but the man had spoken from his heart, that much was clear.

Firiel caught her brother's eye from across the cooking fire, an odd expression crossing her face as she looked at him. _Don't look so surprised,_ he thought suddenly. “You're too kind, Corporal,” she said.

“Just honest, ma'am,” Vale said, and some of the other soldiers nodded in agreement. “Hopefully, soon, word will spread about the Inquisition and the good work we're doing.”

When lunch was finished and they were all getting ready to head West to find Dennet and his horses, Cassandra sought him out. She pulled him aside from the others, much to Felen's surprise. The others hadn't really seemed to give him much thought, aside from Varric (but Varric was just that way with everyone), and really it was only to be expected. _He_ wasn't the Herald of Andraste, or the one with the Mark on his hand —though he knew if he could take all that and what it entailed from Firiel, he would do it in a heartbeat.

“I wanted you to know that I am impressed with how you handled things today,” she said, wasting no time on reaching her point once they had the semblance of privacy. “Vale is not a man to give compliments lightly, so you most certainly made an impression on him.”

“It was just a bear, Cassandra,” he said, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot.

“It wasn't just the bear. Those men and women saw something in you that spoke to them.” She gave a small sigh and a shrug. “I cannot say what exactly, maybe it is something that you and your sister share. Your resemblance to the Herald, perhaps. Any number of things.”

“So you're saying you have no idea what they saw in me?” Felen said, surprising himself with the teasing tone in his words.

Cassandra's eyebrows shot up and for a moment she stumbled over her words. “No, that is to say, I didn't _mean_ it like—” Then, as he couldn't stop himself from shaking with suppressed laughter, her eyes narrowed. “I _meant_ to say that I underestimated you, Felen.”

He really wasn't sure what to say to that. 'Thank you' didn't seem quite appropriate.

“And this isn't just about the situation with the bear and the soldiers. The way that you took care of Vale and the way he ambushed the Herald first thing in the morning,” she shook her head, making a noise he could only attribute to disgust. “You did it without undermining her position as the Herald, yet took all that weight off her shoulders.”

He hadn't think she'd really noticed. Yes, she had complimented him after it had happened, but clearly she had seen more of his motivation than she initially led on.

“I was worried that you might continue to try to convince her to leave the Inquisition,” she admitted, her expression softening. “Instead you are supporting her and helping us. I'm glad I was wrong.”

He _had_ wanted to convince her to leave, but seeing everything he had over the past few days —the rifts, the demons, mages and Templars killing each other throughout the Hinterlands, the people caught in the middle of everything just trying to survive— his mind had been easily changed.

“I can see why she cares about you so much. I think that _both_ of you will do much good for the Inquisition.”

 


	4. Cullen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter lengths are sort of going to vary per POV, based on how much is shown before switching POVs again.

“The Herald is back.”

Cullen's head jerked up from the reports that littered the table in front of him, realizing too late that he had given himself away by the curl of Leliana's lips. The spymaster crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow, studying him too closely for comfort as he tried his best to rearrange his face into a neutral expression.

“Is she?” he asked, clearing his throat and shifting around some of the papers to have something to do with his hands.

“Yes, and she's brought along some new friends. A Qunari mercenary called The Iron Bull and his team,” she said, approaching the table to stand across from him, but not sitting. She was nearly as bad as he was, when it came to relaxing.

“Qunari? Is that really a good idea?”

“I know that you and Varric don't exactly have a good history with the Qunari, but the mercenaries will prove useful... along with the information that our new Ben-Hassrath friend will be passing my way.”

“ _Ben-Hassrath—_  Leliana, you can't honestly want to keep a Qunari spy among our ranks?” Cullen rose from the table, his hand balling involuntarily into a fist.

“He was very forthcoming about his position, or so the Herald tells me. She and her brother don't seem to have a problem with it.”

“Yes, well, sometimes I find myself questioning the Herald's judgment,” he muttered, relaxing his fisted hand and rubbing the back of his neck.

Firiel was set on seeking out the mages soon, ignoring his suggestions about going to the Templars instead. He had to admit, what she and Cassandra had to say about the Lord Seeker's behavior and that of the Templars following him had been troubling. Assaulting a Chantry Mother in the middle of Val Royeaux? Part of him feared for what was becoming of the order he had once sworn himself to.

She had also been collecting quite a... strange group of people. Oh, no doubt the Inquisition needed allies, but it still unnerved him seeing Madame Vivienne sauntering about Haven as comfortably as though she were still back in Orlais. And there was Sera, whose motivations he still didn't quite understand (he didn't think that Firiel quite understood either, she had dodged the question when Cullen tried to ask) and they had even picked up a Grey Warden named Blackwall along the way. And now this Qunari and his mercenary team.

_Maker's breath._

“I think she's doing very well,” Leliana said, “ _Both_ of the Lavellans, actually. Scout Harding's reports from the field have been nothing less than _glowing_.” He wasn't even going to protest, but Leliana held up her hand as if he was about to. “Yes, I know that she can be a little enthusiastic, but even taking that into account, there's no doubt that the soldiers and the people they have been helping have taken quite the shine to them.”

“I didn't say that she wasn't doing well.” Cullen looked down at his papers again, unnerved by the knowing look on Leliana's face. What exactly was she trying to play at?

“You're upset that she doesn't agree with you.”

“It isn't about her agreeing with me—”

“I didn't quite mean it like that, but when you say it that way—”

 _To the Void with this woman!_ “Leliana, please, stop twisting my words around on me,” he grated, pinching the bridge of his nose. “And it isn't just about the Templars, these odd people she's bringing back with her...” Cullen gave a noncommittal wave of his hand, unsure what exactly he was trying to say about them.

“It seems to be odd people that are the ones to shape the world around them. Look at the Hero of Ferelden. Would you have believed the team she had gathered to her side if you hadn't seen them with your own eyes?”

“Yes, all right, I see what you're trying to say.”

“Even the Champion of Kirkwall kept herself in undeniably strange company.”

 _That_ was certainly true. And it hadn't really changed after she'd become Viscount. Varric and her elf paramour —Fenris, he remembered— were commonly seen at her side. Even the prince of Starkhaven and a pirate, he recalled, vaguely. And of course the Guard Captain Aveline. There was also the elven woman he didn't see very often (he learned later she was a mage, which explained why he wasn't as familiar with her). He liked to think of himself as at least one of her acquaintances, especially during the short time she'd kept her seat as Viscount. Between himself as the new Knight-Commander, Guard Captain Aveline, and Hawke, they'd done a lot of work together trying to re-stabilize Kirkwall.

He wondered, briefly and not for the first time, if he could have done more to stop the paranoia of his fellow Templars from running Hawke out of the city.

“I get your point. I also think that perhaps I need to hide myself under a rock because apparently I keep getting involved in all these messes somehow,” he said with a sigh.

“You and myself both. I fear the Maker must have a sense of humor.” Perhaps she intended her joke to be lighthearted, but it just came across a little bitter.

“If he does it's a poor one. You'd think Thedas could go ten years without some kind of world-threatening disaster.”

Leliana shrugged, then tucked a loose bit of her ginger hair back under her hood. “Who are we to know His will? But I'm surprised, Commander. You've let me distract you all this time.” A smile was toying around the corners of her mouth.

How could he have forgotten? As he cast Leliana a stern look (for meddling and distracting him, both) she just laughed, watching him round the table and head for the door.

“If you hurry you might be able to catch her before someone else snatches her up.”

* * *

 

He found her by the stables, chatting with who he could only imagine had to the The Iron Bull (being the only Qunari in Haven and with those horns he could see where the name came from). She was trail-worn and a bit dusty, the rich brown color of her braid a bit dingy from it all. Her hair was also coming loose in places, and he was overcome with the gentle urge to undo her braid and smooth out her hair with his fingers.

Swallowing hard, he squashed down the desire. She was the Herald of Andraste, untouchable despite whatever Leliana might subtly try to imply to the contrary. On top of that she was a mage, and he couldn't forget the way her face had fallen that night at the lake when he'd made the mistake of reminding her that he had been a Templar.

But even after that, she hadn't shied away from his company, even gone so far to seek it out when she was in Haven. He wasn't quite sure what to make of that, wasn't sure he _should_ make anything of that.

He _shouldn't_.

He shouldn't have come running to find her like a fool, either. This was all Leliana's fault. Somehow.

Cullen hesitated and was about to turn back around through Haven's gates when Firiel turned and saw him. Their eyes met, and the way her face lit up at the sight of him made something flutter against his ribs, his reservations momentarily forgotten.

Firiel turned and said something to the Qunari, who nodded at her and walked away. She then began to approach Cullen (who was already walking forward to meet her, despite not quite remembering how that happened), the smile still lingering on her face.

“Cullen, I brought more people to help,” she said, her voice a little breathless and some color rising to her cheeks. The tone in her voice, as if she were seeking _his_ approval, made the fluttering in his chest only beat harder.

Was she... blushing? No, certainly she was just still flushed from the ride back to Haven.

“So I see,” Cullen answered, a little awkwardly. “Ah, Leliana mentioned that to me when she told me you were back safely.”

“I've barely been here for ten minutes, did you come find me as soon as you heard?” She was definitely blushing now, the tips of her ears had gone dark under her olive skin. Her tone was almost teasing, but the glint in her honey-colored eyes told him she wasn't, not really.

Not that it made him feel much better. He was sure he was grinning like an idiot. He looked away and rubbed the back of his neck, trying to recollect the fragments of his dignity that had been shattered by her smile.

“I, well...” _Think of something, Rutherford. You can't just say 'yes'._ “Yes.” _Maker's breath._ “That is to say, I thought we could talk about our plans for the Breach. We can't wait much longer. It's stable, but we don't know how long that will last.”

He cursed himself as Firiel's smile faded. Maybe he _should_ have just admitted the truth, if only to keep the smile on her face.

“Oh, of course,” she said, twining her fingers together and looking down at her hands. The unmistakeable shifting green Mark under her skin seemed to taunt Cullen, reminding him of all the reasons this _whatever it was_ with the Herald was a bad idea. “You're right. I suppose it's time for me to go see Grand Enchanter Fiona and talk to her about the mages.”

“I still cannot convince you to give the Templars a chance?”

That of course was the wrong thing to say. Her expression chilled, eyes narrowing slightly as she looked back up at him. “No, you can't,” she said. “I've already made my decision; Felen and I both have.”

He frowned, despite a tiny voice in the back of his mind shouting at him to apologize. But no, he was the Commander of the Inquisition's forces, and if he didn't make his case he would be doing himself —and her— a disservice. “I understand that you yourself are a mage—“

“You think I'd let my own personal biases affect my decision?” Any warmth that had remained in her had gone. Her hands balled into fists at her sides. He was suddenly aware that he'd made a terrible mistake. “I've trained since I was nine years old to become Keeper, to _lead_ Clan Lavellan. I'm familiar with the concept of placing the needs of the many over the wants of the few.”

“Please, Firiel, I misspoke, I didn't mean—“ Cullen reached out to grip her shoulder as she went to move past him.

As his fingers closed around her she jerked back. “Don't touch me, Templar!” she hissed, her eyes wide.

Her hand flew to her mouth as Cullen wrenched his hand back, reeling as though physically struck. Her eyes shone with —Maker were those tears?— before she turned and fled.

Feeling gutted, Cullen wondered how he had managed to let that go so wrong.


	5. Firiel

How had it all gone so terribly? She hadn't meant to snap at him, to wrench herself away and call him a Templar as if it was a curse. Haven was blurry as Firiel picked her way back to the cabin she now shared with her brother. Thankfully he wasn't there, most likely at The Singing Maiden getting drinks with Sera and Blackwall. She flung herself on the small cot, feeling all at once like a foolish child for behaving that way but not caring as she buried her face in her pillow.

He had just seemed so earnest, the way he smiled as their eyes met. He kept making flimsy excuses to talk to her over the past few weeks, and she thought, maybe,  _ maybe _ , it was finally building towards something.

But no. He was more concerned about the Breach. About her Mark.

Firiel groaned. Of course he was more concerned about the Breach!  _ She _ should be more concerned about it too! And why wouldn't he urge her towards the Templars? He understood them, just as she understood the mages.

And now things were going to be horrible and awkward at the war table, just the thought twisted her stomach into knots. She'd have to tell Felen, he'd been stepping up to handle most of the military decisions anyway, leaving her to handle the more delicate, personal tasks with the common folk. She was the quiet holy figure, while he was the source of power at her side (at least as far as outward appearances went).

What did she think she was doing in the first place; what exactly was she hoping for from Cullen? She couldn't be with him. He was a human, she the Keeper's First. Once her duty with the Inquisition was done she would have to go home. It was her responsibility to maintain the Dalish culture, through teaching and leadership, but also through her future children. And any child with a human would just be human too. Why bother growing attached to someone she could never have? Better to give up now before it even began.

There was a slow, hesitant knock on her door. Firiel groaned. Had someone seen her argument with Cullen and wanted to check on her? Or did Leliana or Josephine have something to talk about? She _had_ just returned after all, normally she checked in with her advisors.

Scrubbing the tears off her face against the scratchy fabric of her pillow, Firiel took a deep breath to try and compose herself. She was certain she looked a mess —all puffy eyes and red cheeks— but there was only so much she could do. Smoothing her hand over her hair (not that there was much point, she could _feel_ how messy it was) she opened the door.

She had not expected to see Cullen standing there, his eyes darting up from the ground as the door opened. His brows were drawn together, his expression open and apologetic. As their eyes met his face softened even further, perhaps at her own pathetic state.

Creators, he looked so... ashamed.

Her own guilt tightened in her chest. It had been unfair of her to speak to him the way she did. She hadn't even given him the chance to speak before storming off like a petulant child.

“Firiel—“

“Cullen—“

“I'm sorry,” they both said, at the same time.

They hesitated, blinking as they stared at each other.

“I just want you to know that I—“

“I shouldn't have reacted that way—“

“—respect whatever choice you make, and I have great respect for _you_.”

“—storming off like that was childish of me.”

They both went silent again, and Firiel couldn't help but smile at least a little bit. Some of the tension eased out of Cullen's face and he sighed, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I—“

“Well—“

Cullen cleared his throat, gesturing to her. “Please, go ahead. This is getting a little out of hand, I think.”

“You... respect me?”

His gaze seemed to sharpen, to grow in intensity. “ _Yes_. Of course I do.”

“Even though I'm a mage?” This was the crux of the matter, the thing they had danced around since that night by the lake. She was a mage. He was a Templar. Used to be a Templar.

“Yes. I don't...” the resolve seemed to leech out of him as he searched for the right thing to say. His jaw clenched. “I don't just see you as... You're not _just_ a mage.” Cullen sighed, shaking his head. “Maker's breath, I'm not saying this right.”

“We need to talk about this. _Really_ talk, instead of just assuming things.” She rested her hand lightly on the doorframe, looking away from his face. She told herself that this wasn't because of whatever she might be feeling about him. They needed to reconcile for the sake of the Inquisition. Of course. “We need to be able to work together.”

He nodded, a little stiffly. “Of course.”

“You should come inside, people are probably starting to wonder why you're standing on my doorstep.” Firiel raised an eyebrow, backing up so that he could enter.

Cullen hesitated, looking into the small building and then back at her. “Would you not be more comfortable with someone else present? Your brother, perhaps?”

“Cullen.” She said his name quietly, brows drawing together. “I... I trust you, despite what I said before.”

The surprise on his face was painful. “Do you?”

She winced. “I _want_ to.”

Cullen gave a slight humorless laugh. “I suppose that's fair.”

He followed her inside, closing the door behind him after a moment's hesitation. He took a seat at the small table, pulling off his gloves and threading them under his belt. It was a small gesture, but seeing him expose the skin of his hands seemed almost like a concession. Like he was breaking down a small part of his guise of Commander, wanting to just be Cullen.

Firiel leaned back against the wall across from him, not quite comfortable sitting down beside him. For the moment she wanted to be the taller one, and he seemed to give that to her.

“Go back to what you were saying before,” she said, quietly, tucking her arms behind her back as her shoulders pressed against the wall. “How do you see me?”

His gaze went down to the table, seeming to study the woodgrain and he mulled over the right words to say. “You are quite a lot of things. The point I was trying to make was that, when I see you, I don't think of you as just a mage. I try not to do that with _any_ mage anymore, but you especially.” He rubbed the back of his neck, looking up at her again. There was an honest, almost pleading look on his face, willing her to understand. “I know you read Varric's book. He... _warned_ me that you'd mentioned it. I'm trying not to be that man anymore. I have distrusted mages on principle, many times without cause.”

“Considering how many blood mages there ended up being in Kirkwall—“

Cullen shook his head before she could even finish. “That doesn't excuse my behavior. Do not give me more credit than I deserve, there was a time where I honestly believed that mages should not be treated as people.” He gave a humorless chuff of laughter, shaking his head and pinching the bridge of his nose. “My own words have been quoted back to me many times, thanks to that book. I would not have been surprised if you had done so as well.”

“I didn't exactly memorize the book, Cullen,” she said, a little weakly. “To be truthful, I remembered you more for defying Meredith and trying to defend the mages you believed to be innocent. That you fought at the Champion's side.”

“I would not expect you to approve of the Champion's actions.”

“Because I'm a mage?”

“To be perfectly honest, yes.”

“My opinion is only based on Varric's own, entirely biased book. And from whatever rumors came to my clan,” she said, shrugging. “I think she did the best she could with a terrible set of circumstances. There was no good solution, Anders made sure of that.”

Firiel hesitated, biting her lip. “The Dalish do not have Circles, but we do limit the number of mages we have in a clan. We do not tolerate blood magic, and if I or any other mage became possessed the clan would kill us to protect themselves. The difference is that we respect our mages, don't tear them away from their families and keep them locked up in stone towers.

“I don't blame the mages for wanting to be free. But I'm not going to pretend that it makes them unaccountable for their actions. I've been witness to the aftermath of the mage rebellion for weeks, and all I know for certain is that I wish the fighting would stop.”

“In that we are in agreement,” he said, resting an elbow on the table. He had relaxed a little, seemed to regard her with a bit more understanding. “The Circles as they were were far from perfect. But I cannot lie to you and say that I think they're entirely wrong. I've seen what can happen when mages are corrupted, some of the worst that power can cause. I am not ashamed to admit that the thought of mages going unchecked worries me.”

“I understand. But there needs to be some kind of compromise.”

“Yes.”

They went quiet then, not quite sure what to say. That had not gone how Firiel had expected, in a way it had gone better. He was not at all how her clan's stories of Templars would have her believe. The air was clearer between them, but now she was uncertain where that left them.

“Cullen, I...” She hesitated as eyes met hers, gaze returning from where it had drifted while they sat in silence. “Thank you for being so honest with me. I'm sorry that I misjudged you.”

He rose to his feet, sighing and shaking his head. “I'm certain you've had more than enough reason to doubt me, so please, don't apologize.”

Firiel pushed away from the wall, closing the distance between them as he stood beside the table. “I just want things to be... _good_ between us. We're both in this together.”

“Of course, I—“ he paused, looking down at her with an unguarded expression. “Are things good? Better, at least?”

The hope in his warm brown eyes was enough to elicit a bubbly feeling in her chest. She couldn't resist the urge to reach out and take his hand, her fingers curling around his palm. His skin was warm and calloused from years of wielding a sword, and for a dangerous moment she wondered how his hand would feel against her cheek, her arms, her waist. “Definitely better,” she said quietly. “I've enjoyed our talks these past few weeks, I'd hate for them to end.”

The surprised look on his face after she took his hand melted into a small —almost shy— smile. “Well, I'm... glad about that,” he murmured, curling his fingers around hers.

They had moved in closer together, she realized. Her eyes darted down to his mouth, moistening her own lips unconsciously as her gaze drifted over the scar that broke up the stubble on his upper lip. She wanted to kiss him, knew that she shouldn't but didn't care. As she looked up from his mouth, back to his eyes, there was a heat there that hadn't been there a moment ago. His lips parted, and as he leaned forward to close the last bit of distance between them—

—there was a sharp knock on the door and it began to open.

“Firiel, are you— _oh_.”

They jerked apart quickly, Firiel snatching her hand back as she whirled around to face Felen. Her face was burning, and she wasn't sure if she was furious with her brother for interrupting, or grateful that he stopped her from making what could have been a terrible mistake. At the moment it was a little bit of both.

Cullen seemed to refuse to wither under Felen's furious glare, but knew better than to linger. “Herald,” he said to her, a little stiffly, and made a hasty retreat out the door her brother held open for him.

If Cullen had any doubt about Felen's feelings about him, surely it was gone. She hadn't actually spoken with her brother about Cullen before, but judging by the murderous look on his face, they were about to. He closed the door gently —too gently— and crossed his arms over his chest.

“Would you like to explain what that was all about?” he said with forced calmness, his jaw clenched.

“We were just talking,” she snapped. What business was it of his? And what was he so _mad_ about?

“Oh, is that what the humans call it?” he said, rolling his eyes.

As he came over to stand beside her she moved away to sit cross-legged on the cot instead. “Oh go headbutt a halla.”

“You do realize he's human? The Commander of the Inquisition soldiers? An ex-Templar?”

“Now that you mentioned it, I hadn't noticed. I thought maybe something happened to his ears, the uniform was just for show, and oh, is _that_ why my magic keeps feeling funny?” Her magic had been perfectly fine, thank you, but her brother didn't know that.

“Oh yes, the sarcasm is just charming, Firiel, but I'm just trying to make sure you know what you're doing. Do you really think fooling around with the Commander is a good idea?” Felen leaned back against the edge of the table.

His anger seemed to be dissipating as the shock of finding them wore off, but she was just feeling more annoyed. “I'm not  _fooling around_ ,” she snapped.

“Then what is it? Because you can't actually be serious about a human.”

She bit her tongue, despite wanting to petulantly snap 'why not?' back at him. But she  _knew_ why not. Had already made all the arguments to herself. “I know,” she spat, instead.

He eyed her for a moment as she felt the anger leech out of her. Firiel sighed and flopped over onto her side, wishing —not for the first time— that she hadn't been born a mage; that it didn't automatically mean she was to be trained as a Keeper. It would feel less like a betrayal to have feelings for a human if she were just a hunter or hearthkeeper.

“Dread Wolf take us both, aren't we a pair of fools?” Felen said with a world-weary sigh, shrugging his shoulders and letting his head fall back limply. “Clan Lavellan will love this: first the disappointment of me being disinterested in women —so no Dalish babies from _me_ — and now _this_.”

“There's no _this_ ,” she said, but her words sounded weak even to herself. Firiel rolled over onto her back, staring up at the wooden beams that held up the roof. “I can't let there be a _this_.” She draped her arm over her eyes. “Fenedhis. There's no _this_.”

“If you keep saying it, maybe it'll come true.”

 


	6. Felen

“Redcliffe Castle is one of the most defensible fortresses in Ferelden. It has repelled thousands of assaults. If you go in there, you'll die.” Cullen hesitated, clenching his jaw. “And we'll lose the only means we have of closing these rifts. I won't allow it.”

“I wasn't asking for your permission, Commander. I was hoping for a _plan_ ,” Firiel answered, her voice low as she spoke across the table. For a moment Felen wasn't sure the human had heard her, but the further tightening of his jaw told him that he had.

Leliana and Josephine seemed oblivious to the tension between Firiel and Cullen, arguing over the political and practical facets of their plan to get to the mages Magister Alexius had under his thumb. But Felen noticed. The two of them had been carefully avoiding each other since their return from Redcliffe where they had met with a certain Dorian Pavus and Magister Alexius's son Felix.

As far as Felen knew, the Commander and his sister hadn't spoken since he had interrupted their almost-kiss. They had left Haven the next morning to meet with Grand Enchanter Fiona, and even the quick exchange between Firiel and Cullen before they departed was clipped and excessively polite. It seemed like they were both trying their hardest to act as though nothing had happened between them.

It was difficult, watching Firiel put on a brave face. She wasn't very good at it, and even though Felen knew it was for the best, part of him wished she didn't have to do it. Not that he wanted her getting involved with the human in the first place; it would have been better if she hadn't gotten her heart tangled up in _any_ of the Inquisition.

Cullen must have also realized his own impropriety. About time, too, but why couldn't he have figured that out _before_ getting Firiel's emotions involved? This whole thing was just a mess.

Thankfully, for the moment, they had a more serious matter to distract themselves with.

As much as it annoyed Felen, he agreed with Cullen. Going into Redcliffe Castle seemed like a huge mistake. All of this mess with Magister Alexius, strange time magic, the obvious trap, every instinct in Felen's body screamed at him to _stay away_. But at the same time, the thought of leaving this threat unchecked seemed worse. They couldn't just ignore it and hope it went away.

“We can't just give up, there must be something we can do,” Firiel said, cutting in quietly as the advisors argued amongst themselves.

“We cannot accept defeat now, there must be a solution,” Cassandra said.

“Other than the main gate, there's got to be another way into the castle.” Felen leaned forward, pressing his hands onto the table. “A sewer? A water course? Something?”

“There's nothing I know of that would work,” Cullen replied, eying Felen as though hoping to convince him against this foolish course of action. As if that would help him stop Firiel.

“Wait,” Leliana said, eyes widening. “There is a secret passage into the castle, an escape route for the family. It's too narrow for our troops, but we could send agents through.”

“Too risky. Those agents will be discovered well before they reach the Magister.”

“That's why we need a distraction. Perhaps the envoy Alexius wants so badly?”

“Focus their attention on the Herald while we take out the Tevinters? Use her as bait?” Cullen was scowling, shaking his head. “I don't like it. It's too risky.”

“I don't like it either, but she won't be alone,” Felen snapped. “It sounds like the best option so far. What choice do we have?”

“We could still go to the Templars instead.”

“And just leave all those mages to be used by Alexius?” Firiel interjected, louder than Felen would have expected. But she wasn't angry, she was worried. “I can't do that. They need us.”

“They chose to ally with _Tevinter_ _—_ ”

“Out of desperation, Cullen. The Inquisition can give them something better than slavery.”

“This puts you at too much of a risk.”

Firiel was about to argue, Felen could see it in the gathering frown on her face, but just then the door opened. As they all turned to glance at the interruption, Felen was surprised —and not pleasantly— to see Dorian Pavus.

“Fortunately, you'll have help,” he said as he _strutted_ into the room.

Felen just stared. Had the man honestly waited until the perfect moment to enter the room? For what, _dramatic_ effect? Was he listening at the door?

Dorian caught him staring, and gave Felen such an exaggerated wink that it quirked his mustache. Scoffing and rolling his eyes, he was annoyed to realize that he felt _embarrassed_ by the attention. He barely even heard what the guard who followed the mage inside had to say.

Dorian flashed Firiel a charming smile, moving to stand by her side as she smiled back at him, looking reassured by his presence.

Cullen, by contrast, looked a bit sour as he watched their silent exchange.

“Your spies will never get past Alexius's magic without my help. So if you're going after him, I'm coming along,” Dorian continued, now that all eyes were upon him. Clearly he enjoyed the attention.

Felen realized there _was_ someone in the room that annoyed him more than Cullen.

* * *

 

“I'm sure she'd come with us if we asked, but I don't think we should bring Sera. She hates magic.”

Snow and gravel crunched loudly under Felen's feet as he and Firiel left the Chantry. Dorian had stayed behind to discuss plans for him and Leliana's people to sneak into Redcliffe Castle, much to his relief.

“We shouldn't bring Bull either, he's not exactly inconspicuous,” Firiel said with a sigh.

“Vivienne would just start an argument with Fiona and the other rebel mages the second Alexius is taken care of. She should stay behind too.”

“Give her some more credit than that. She knows how to play a situation to her advantage. But I agree.”

“We should bring Cassandra, her abilities could come in useful if things get out of hand.”

“Absolutely.”

They had to decide on one more person. Too many people with them would seems suspicious, as if they were expecting the trap. But the advisors had no intentions of letting Firiel go in alone despite Magister Alexius's request, not that Felen would let her anyway. If everything went to plan, Leliana's agents would dismantle the Venatori presence swiftly. If not, they needed to be prepared to fight.

Varric appeared from around the corner of The Singing Maiden, his face brightening at the sight of them. The three of them met beside the tavern and stopped to talk.

“So, what's the word from the Inquisition's finest, Tansy?” Varric asked Firiel, using a nickname he'd heard the dwarf use a few times before. It was certainly more flattering than his own, 'Guard Dog'.

She gave him a quick rundown of the plan, that they were going to be playing the bait in getting Alexius to drop his guard. Varric's eyebrows raised as he listened, tapping his chin thoughtfully.

When she finished, Felen added, “You should come with us. Just in case something needs to be filled with arrows.”

“Bolts, technically,” Varric corrected with a wry twist of his lips. “Crossbows use bolts. Who else are you taking?”

“Cassandra.”

A loud bark of laughter escaped from the dwarf. “Then yes, you'll need someone to lighten the mood if you're bringing the Seeker. And besides, who doesn't love walking right into a trap? It'll be just like old times.”

“I'd hate to leave you without any new material for your next book,” Firiel said with an affectionate smile.

Varric returned her smile. “I knew there was a reason I liked you, Tansy. Though my taste in friends leaves something to be desired for my own physical well-being, I've noticed.”

“Varric I've been meaning to ask: why Tansy?”

“It's a yellow flower, used sometimes as a medicinal herb. Seemed to fit you, being a Keeper in training and all.”

“But if you wanted to use a yellow flower, why not Daisy?”

Varric laughed. “Daisy is taken.”

The dwarf shifted on his feet, taking a moment to straighten a wrinkle in his sleeve. “So the mages huh? Not that I'm complaining, believe me I've known my share of good mages —present company of course included— but I've known plenty of bad ones too.”

“Mages are just people. They can be good or bad.” Firiel gave a small, tired sigh.

“True enough. I'm sure we could have a long-winded debate about it, but trust me, I've heard enough bickering about mages to last a lifetime. I've seen so much shit that could support either side, I wouldn't even know where to begin, anyway. Besides, walking into this obvious trap sounds like much more fun. What could go wrong?”

* * *

 

As it turned out, _so much_ could go wrong. More than Felen could even imagine.

A year was all it took for the world to fall apart. The hum and heat of the red lyrium all around them was oppressive, the stone walls pressing in around him. Firel, Dorian, and himself had been thrown through the time rift together, and now they were trying to find Leliana.

They had found Fiona. He wasn't sure he could ever forget it, the way she was encased in the red lyrium, how it was _growing_ from her body.

He shook his head to rid himself of the image.

Firiel looked up at him, her fingers slipping around his wrist. Her face was painted with the red glow that lit the dungeons. She was trembling. “We can't let this happen,” she whispered. “This future, we have to stop it.”

Felen covered her hand with his own. “I know,” he said.

Dorian was walking ahead of them, twisting the handle of his staff in his hands absentmindedly as he took in everything around them. How could he take everything in so easily? The very sight of Fiona had made him nauseous, but Dorian had no issues pressing her for information and returning to the task at hand.

“All this red lyrium,” Dorian mused to no one in particular, “I wonder how far it's spread.”

Maybe it was the insidious whispers that surrounded him, just faint enough that he couldn't make out what the voices were saying, or the bile that hung in the back of his throat, but Felen couldn't take it. “How can you be so casual about all this? Doesn't any of this bother you?”

The Tevinter mage cast him a quick look over his shoulder, not even bothering to pause in his steps. “My apologies, what do you think would be more suitable? I could cry, that would be a bit of a spectacle. Oh, panicking is always a classic. Unfortunately neither of those scenarios are exactly _helpful_ are they? And seeing as how I'm the only one here that has any idea whatsoever of how this magic works, I thought perhaps it would be best to keep my decidedly ample wit about me. Also, if we _do_ get back, I imagine the spymaster of _our_ time might appreciate as much information about this dark future as we can manage to scrape up, hmm?”

Dorian pushed open a door to another wing of the dungeon, not even bothering to see if Felen had a response to any of his, well, rhetorical questions. The mage was, of course, correct. Not that Felen wanted to admit it, because even though logically he was handling this situation best, it just rubbed him the wrong way.

Firiel was silent, her hand still locked around his wrist.

Just past the doorway, Dorian came to a stop. “Do you... hear that?” he asked, cocking his head slightly.

There was a female voice, strange and distorted —as Fiona's had been— reciting a prayer. His sister's fingers pressed hard into his skin, making Felen wince.

“What—?” he started, but Firiel suddenly let go.

“Cassandra,” she breathed, pushing past her brother and Dorian as she followed the Seeker's prayer.

He followed her as she passed by empty cells, finally finding Cassandra. The woman sat against the wall of the cell, arms curled loosely around her knees. Her eyes —red and glowing, Creators even she had been tainted by the red lyrium— stared vacantly at the stones above her head, speaking to the heavens.

“—for she who trusts in the Maker, fire is her water.”

“Cassandra!” Firiel took hold of the heavy iron lock that secured the cell door, and before Felen was certain what she did, it shattered and fell to the floor. She yanked open the door, and the Seeker's eyes slowly focused on her.

“You've returned to us. Can it be? Has Andraste given us another chance?” The brief flash of hope that had overtaken Cassandra quickly faded, and her expression twisted into one of pain. “Maker forgive me, I have failed you. I failed _everyone_. The end must truly be upon is if the dead return to life.”

Felen stayed on the outside of the cell, watching numbly as Firiel knelt before Cassandra. She shook her head, taking the Seeker's hands into her own. For a moment, he thought that Cassandra was going to recoil from the touch, but the pain in her face eased away.

“You didn't fail me. We're going to fix this. I didn't die, it's...” Firiel shook her head, looking back at him. No, not him. At Dorian.

“Alexius sent us forward in time. If we find him, we may be able to return to the present,” Dorian supplied. He sounded more confident than either of them could have managed, and for that, Felen was grateful despite himself.

“I saw you die,” Cassandra said, her eyes finally breaking away from Firiel to glance up at Felen and Dorian. “The Magister obliterated you, _all_ of you with a gesture.”

Firiel tugged on Cassandra's hands, drawing the woman's attention back to her. “We're here. For us that only happened a short time ago,” she said quietly, and Cassandra's eyes fell to their joined hands. “I'm so sorry you've had to go through this.”

“You can fix this? Make this so it never happens?”

“Yes. If it can be done, we're going to do it. Dorian thinks there's a way to get us back so we can stop this.”

* * *

 

Creators, it all seemed so unbelievable. This Elder One and his demon army, the murder of Empress Celene...

Felen and Cassandra watched side by side as Firiel spoke quietly with Varric, taking hold of his large hand in her two small ones. The dwarf, despite everything, somehow looked embarrassed and touched her arm with his free hand, shaking his head.

“I had forgotten how kind she was,” Cassandra said softly, as she watched. “Too kind, for all of this, I think.”

“She shouldn't have to be responsible for stopping this. It's too much to ask of one person.” Felen's voice was more bitter than he intended.

“She has you. And all of us. The Inquisition will stand with her.” She hesitated. “But you are right. She has the Mark, and in that regard she is alone.”

There was something about this future that Felen needed to know, had to ask without Firiel hearing. He tapped Cassandra lightly on the shoulder and gestured for her to follow, walking a few paces away to put more distance between himself and his sister. Despite the lyrium glow in her eyes, her curious expression was so familiar. It was unnerving, to think of this woman and the Cassandra he knew as the same person.

“Do you know what happened to Cullen?”

He was surprised that Firiel hadn't asked, but perhaps she was afraid of the answer. After hearing that Leliana was in the castle, Felen had wondered if they had also managed to get a hold on the Inquisition's Commander. It was just as likely that Cassandra didn't know of his fate, or that he was dead.

Cassandra shook her head, her expression grim. For a moment, Felen thought that the man was dead in this future.

But no, it couldn't be that simple.

“He's here, but he is no longer the man you knew. The red lyrium has corrupted his mind, I fear we will have to face him before we reach Alexius.”


	7. Firiel

_ No. _

_ No no no. _

_ Please, no. _

Felen had warned her, but how could she ever be prepared for this?

Cullen stood before the final door, the door that would lead them to Alexius's chambers. The flaming sword insignia of his Templar armor —gone were the trappings of the Inquisition— glowed red upon his breast. Shards of red lyrium sprung from his shoulders, a cruel mockery of the furred mantle with which Firiel was so familiar. His hair was a mess of curls, grown too long over the past year. 

The skin of his face was cracked, lined with that all-too-familiar red glow. The red lyrium had even gone so far as to claim the scar on his lip, and his eyes that used to be so warm and brown were now crimson and vacant, glowing like so much of him now.

_ I will stop this from happening. I will save you, all of you, from this. _

Cullen snapped to attention as they neared, raising his sword and shield. His face twisted into a snarl so fierce Firiel stopped dead in her tracks.

“ _You._ You will go no further.” Cullen's voice echoed through the shattered hall, distorted by the lyrium that consumed him.

“Shit,” she heard Varric say.

She shook off her twin's grasp, ignoring his sound of protest as she slipped away to stand beside Cassandra, who was at their fore. “Cullen, please, we don't want to fight you,” she pleaded.

“It would be a mercy to put him out of his misery. That is not Cullen anymore.”

Firiel twisted sharply to look back at Leliana, whose fingers were slipping through the feathers of her arrows, waiting to pluck one from her quiver. “Let me try at least.  _ Please _ .”

Her hand dropped back down to her side, but the spymaster didn't even bother to hide her look of disgust. “Do not waste too much time. You have little enough as it is.”

Everything soft and kind that had remained in Leliana had been tortured out of her, and Firiel couldn't blame her. What horrors had she seen and had done to her? Her mind recoiled from the memory of how they had found her, strung up by her wrists.

When she returned her attention to Cullen, she found him staring at her, his expression no longer twisted into a snarl, but altogether unreadable. Was some part of him still there? If not, then why was he hesitating?

“Please, Cullen,” Firiel said, repeating his name, _willing_ him to remember, “Just let us pass.”

He glared, raising his weapons higher, but seemed rooted to the spot. “You will go no further,” he repeated.

She took a step closer to him, passing the scant protection of Cassandra's shield. She slid her staff into the harness on her back, holding up her empty hands in a placating gesture, as though approaching a feral animal.

“Don't—!” the Seeker hissed, but was hesitant to move from where she stood.

Cullen's grip on his sword tightened.

Firiel took two more small steps closer, putting more distance between herself and her companions. It was foolish, she should have just let the others kill him. That's what a more rational mind would have done. The needs of the many over the wants of the few, isn't that what she had said to Cullen?

She was such a hypocrite.

Just looking at him hurt. Her chest ached and her throat burned as she held back the tears that wanted to fill her eyes. But she couldn't cry, not yet. They needed her here, now.

“Cullen,” she said, her voice thick, betraying the emotions she was trying to hide. “You know me. You know all of us. It's Firiel, you have to remember.”

“ _No!_ ” Cullen clenched his jaw, the tendons of his neck bulging. “She is dead. She died.”

Another step, despite everything in her body screaming at her to flee. But some part of him was there, knew her, was fighting to the surface. If only she could reach it. “Cullen, I'm  _ here _ . I'm  _ alive _ .”

“ _NO!_ ”

Before she even saw him react, Cullen lunged at her, sword raised and then falling —Creators, how was he so fast? Firiel raised her hands and fell to her knees knowing, even if she had her staff, she couldn't have raised a barrier in time. She braced for the blow.

But his sword deflected off the shimmering surface of a barrier.

“Kaffas! What are you doing, you idiotic woman?! Get out of there!” Dorian shouted.

She heard the twang of Bianca being fired, but Varric's shot must have bounced off the magical shield before it reached Cullen, because she never saw it. “Tansy, don't get yourself killed!”

Cullen swung down at her again, pressing his blade against the barrier that separated them. His face was going red from the strain, veins popping on his forehead. And through it all he stared at her. “I will not let you trick me with her face! I have been tortured and tormented like this before, and you will not break my resolve! You will not break me!”

Felen was at her side, catching Cullen's blade with his own with a roar as Dorian's barrier fell. The sudden loss of the barrier caused Cullen to stumble forward, and Felen shoved him backwards, catching him off-balance. The Commander fell with a jarringly-loud crash of plate armor, her twin's face set with hard lines as he stood over him.

Dorian braced her elbow as he helped her off her knees. “You can't help him. Not here,” he said, firm, but there was a gentleness too. “The only way to save him is to get back to our present.”

“I can't just pretend it isn't him.”

“It can't, it can't, it can't.” Cullen was on his knees now, holding his head in his hands, rocking back and forth, gauntleted fingers pulling on his hair. “The song, it's singing their faces before my eyes. Dead, they're dead. It's just the _song._ ”

Felen didn't look up as Firiel went to his side, gripping the hilt of his greatsword in both hands as he watched Cullen. “He stopped fighting as soon as he saw me standing over him,” he murmured. “Said something about not understanding why the lyrium would show him  _ me _ .”

“We can't leave Curly like this,” Varric said. He left the obvious solution unspoken, but the grim look on his face told Firiel he only meant one thing.

Shaking her head, Firiel knelt beside Cullen, covering his hands with her own. She threaded her fingers between his as best she could, trying to ease his grip and pull his hands away. “Cullen, look at me.”

“This is a waste of time,” she heard Leliana mutter, followed by a silencing hiss from Cassandra.

Cullen kept muttering to himself, fists at his temples, eyes squeezed shut.

“Poor man,” Dorian said with a sigh.

“Cullen,” she said again, louder this time. When he still didn't respond, she tightened her grip on him and _shook_. “ _Cullen!_ ”

His eyes snapped open and he looked at her, his hands relaxing just enough that she could pull them out of his hair. She released his hands and pressed her fingers to the sides of his face. His skin was feverishly hot to the touch. The fear and confusion melted away all at once, leaving behind such unbridled relief that it made her chest ache.

“Maker's breath. Firiel, it's really you, isn't it?” he whispered, and for the first time his eyes seemed to focus on hers and she knew that Cullen had come back.

“It's me, Cullen,” she said quietly. “We're here to fix this, to stop it from happening. Dorian thinks he can get us back to our time and stop Alexius before any of this starts.”

“I never thought... I never thought I'd get the chance to tell you how sorry I was. I've regretted it for so long,” his words were rushed, his eyes searching hers. His hands circled her forearms as she cradled his face.

“I don't understand. What could you be sorry for?”

“For avoiding you, before you left for Redcliffe. For not...” he trailed off, his brow furrowing. His eyes went distant, and for a moment she was afraid she was losing him, but they snapped back into focus and his frown deepened. “If you get back. If you stop all of this. Don't let me avoid you, Firiel. I— _he_ will regret it.”

But she had been avoiding  _ him _ . And Creators, in the middle of all this she couldn't understand  _ why _ anymore. This was all so much bigger than they had thought, so much  _ more _ than her responsibility to her clan. The Mark, the Inquisition, both were so important to preventing this future.

As if she could ever just go back to being the Keeper's First.

She was irrevocably changed.

Cullen's hands tightened. She had been silent for too long. “Promise me.”

Firiel had to swallow past a lump in her throat. She nodded. “I promise.”

He pulled her hands away from his face, turning his head to press a kiss to her palm. Then he was pushing her gently away, and before she could process what was happening Dorian was once again helping her to her feet.

“What—?”

“Cassandra you know what you have to do,” Cullen said, “I can already feel the lyrium pulling me back down.” He balled his hands into fists, a snarl twisting his face. “It has taken _everything_ from me. I can't let it do so again.”

Cassandra was at his side, and Firiel was shocked to see the flash of a naked dagger in her hand. “I know, my friend.”

“ _No!_ ”

Dorian tightened his grip on her arms, pulling her away and turning her to face him. “You don't need to see this,” he said, an apology in his gray eyes.

There were hands on her shoulders, and she knew they belonged to her twin. He pressed his brow to the top of her head. “This isn't real,” he murmured. “This won't happen.”

She couldn't shatter, not now.  _ Not now _ . Firiel covered her ears with her hands, staring at Dorian. He looked back, met her gaze and held it without flinching.

Though she couldn't hear it, she knew when it happened as her brother's hands spasmed on her shoulders and Dorian winced and looked away.

 

* * *

 

She kept herself going through sheer force of will, using her pain to fuel her magic as they fought Alexius. She pushed back the tears as they crept up her throat as Cassandra and Varric sacrificed themselves to buy Dorian time with their lives. Felen gripped her arm like a vice as Leliana was killed in front of her, just as the time rift flared into being and they were thrust back to their own time.

Her brother and Dorian handled Alexius as he sunk to his knees in defeat, she merely watched in silence. Perhaps she should have been more alert as King Alistair arrived, but she couldn't bring herself to care. As the Herald of Andraste, she managed to offer Fiona and the rebel mages a place within the Inquisition as she had wanted. She could not leave that for Felen to handle.

Finally,  _ finally _ , the room began to empty. The King was gone, Alexius was being led away in chains, and the mages were escorted by Inquisition agents.

Varric and Cassandra — _ her _ Varric and Cassandra— watched her. Dorian began to explain in broad strokes what had happened, that they had been sent forward in time, that he had been so brilliant and brought them back. Varric looked at the mage, making a quip about all the weird shit that had happened to their Herald so far.

But Cassandra only had eyes for Firiel. Her brow furrowed slightly, and she approached the elven woman. “This all sounds so impossible. Herald, are you all right?”

No, Creators no. How could she be all right? This was all so much more than they thought. She watched Cassandra die, all of them  _ die _ . And Cullen. She hadn't allowed herself to even  _ think _ about Cullen since Felen had guided her past his body, making sure she didn't see. She knew what would happen to these people she had come to care about if she failed.

She opened her mouth to speak, but instead of words a broken sob ripped free. Covering her mouth with one hand, her eyes swam with tears. It was too much. Everything was suddenly just too much. The Seeker caught her as her knees buckled, and held her steady as she wept.

 


	8. Felen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully this doesn't seem too rushed, I'm trying not to dwell over stuff that happened in the games that is relatively unchanged in this story.

The Breach was sealed, everyone was celebrating, and Dorian Pavus was leaning against a wall, watching everything from a distance. Alone.

Felen wasn't sure where he might find the mage, but considering the man's love of attention he hadn't expected him to be by himself. Though, he supposed it would make all of this a bit easier, at least.

Everything had been moving in such a hurry since leaving Redcliffe, he hadn't even had an opportunity to breathe, let alone sit down and have a conversation with Dorian. Firiel had insisted that they press forward to the Breach with the mages as soon as they returned to Haven, desperate to take this first step in preventing the possible future they had witnessed.

Not that he could blame her.

He hoped that she would take a moment to rest, now that the Breach was at least sealed. There was only so much she could do by herself, and it would do no one any good if she worked herself sick.

A quick glance reassured him that Firiel was still talking with Cassandra. The Seeker had rarely left her side since Redcliffe. He was surprised to realize that he wasn't jealous, but instead grateful that there were others who cared for her. When they were small and they only had each other, he was selfish of her attention and her tears. He was the one she went to when she was hurting, or scared, or sad.

He knew it wasn't just because of the Mark. These people _really_ cared about her.

And him. He had made friends too.

Dorian hadn't noticed him yet. He was too focused on the people, watching them drink and laugh, exchanging stories of what they had done in service to the Inquisition, what they had witnessed their Herald do (each telling more extravagant than the next, of course). His face was unguarded, a look Felen could only call _longing_ in his pale eyes.

Gravel crunched loudly under his feet (boots, damn them, if it wasn't so cold in the South he'd never wear them) and gave him away. Dorian's head snapped quickly at the sound. After a beat his expression transformed into an easy smile so natural that Felen wondered if perhaps he'd been mistaken by a trick of the firelight.

“Fancy seeing you here,” Dorian said smoothly.

“What are you doing here all by yourself? I thought you'd be celebrating; you _did_ help after all,” Felen said, raising an eyebrow.

Dorian gave a dismissive wave, rolling his eyes. “Me, celebrate with the common rabble? Perish the thought. Besides, I think your soldiers would rather not rub elbows with the 'evil Vint', don't you?”

Felen frowned. “Is that what they're saying? Do I need to remind them that—?”

The mage shook his head, mouth quirking into a smirk. “It's only to be expected, with everything you Southerners believe about Tevinter. The Herald's brother needn't concern himself with such trifling matters.” His expression softened just barely. “But I appreciate the thought. That protective streak you've got is quite endearing.”

Felen looked away, hoping that the orange cast of the firelight hid the heat he could feel rising to his cheeks and the points of his ears. How did this stupid, _infuriating_ , Tevinter mage keep making him react this way?

“I just came here to thank you,” Felen snapped, rolling a small stone under his boot.

“You're welcome,” he said, unfazed by the warrior's tone.

Felen looked back at him, giving him an impatient look. “I didn't even tell you why.”

“Does it matter? I'm certain there's a number of wonderful things you should be thanking me for, such as the joy of being in my presence.” He was smirking again.

Felen hissed through his teeth, glaring. “I don't know why I bother. I came here to thank you for everything you did at Redcliffe. For helping me take care of Firiel in that future.”

Dorian's playful expression faded, leaving him looking rather thoughtful. “Ah, I see.” He turned his head, looking over to where Firiel was still standing with Cassandra. “Your sister, she's quite remarkable. And it's not just the Mark, or what the people of the Inquisition say about her. You as well —I've seen the way the soldiers respond to you. You demand a surprising amount of respect for... well, for an _elf_ if I'm being particularly honest.”

“It must shock you, us elves not bowing and scraping like _slaves_.”

Dorian had grace enough to look properly abashed. “I won't lie, I was surprised when I found out your sister was the Herald of Andraste everyone was talking about. But I suppose that made the story _more_ believable. What good Andrastian would name a Dalish elf —someone who by all rights doesn't even _believe_ in the Maker— as some kind of holy figure unless there was something remarkable about her?

“But you both have my respect. I hope you believe that.”

Felen sighed, letting his anger flow out with his breath. “I do,” he said, and meant it.

There was a pause, before Dorian spoke again. His voice was soft. “She must care for the Commander quite a bit.”

“I suppose she does.” Felen hadn't wanted to think about it. About Cullen. About what had happened in that future, and her promise to him.

“Has she had a chance to talk with him?”

“No, I don't think so. She's been too busy, _he's_ been too busy helping.”

The sharp tolling of the Chantry's bell rang out over Haven, and the sounds of laughter and celebration hushed. Dorian pushed away from the wall, giving Felen a questioning glance that he could only return with his own confused shake of his head.

Over the sudden stillness that filled Haven, he could hear Cullen's voice, shouting. “Forces approaching! To arms!”

“So much for having a moment to relax, I suppose,” Dorian sighed. He made an 'after you' gesture with one hand, the other going to his staff. “Shall we, then?”

* * *

 

They were just like Cullen, these Red Templars. The Cullen in that dark future. Firiel saw it too; Felen could tell by the way she hesitated when they first saw them, the moment that panic widened her eyes. But then she steeled herself and faced them.

This Inquisition, this _war_ , was changing her. Changing both of them. He wondered if it was for the better.

When they took back the final trebuchet, an arrow struck deep into the meat of his thigh. He snapped off the end and kept fighting, but when the dragon came and a retreat was called, Dorian had to help him walk to the chantry.

Felen grimaced as Dorian helped him ease down onto a stool, pain lancing through his leg.

“Don't you dare move, you idiot, I'll fetch a healer,” Dorian told him, glaring. “I'm no good at healing spells.”

“Don't,” Felen hissed through gritted teeth, catching the mage's wrist as he turned to go. “There's others wounded worse than me.” He left it unsaid that there was a good chance that it wouldn't matter anyway. “And why am _I_ an idiot?”

Dorian allowed himself to be stopped, but he was still glaring. “ _You_ stepped between me and that archer! I had a barrier up, it wouldn't have touched me.”

“I wasn't thinking, I just reacted,” Felen countered, looking down at his leg. He sucked in a breath, the pain suddenly sharpening as he looked at it, as though his extra awareness of it made the pain more real. “Besides, didn't you say that you found my protective streak endearing?”

“Oh, he jokes now!” Dorian exclaimed with a sharp, humorless laugh. “But I'm afraid I can't continue to find you oh-so-charming when you're dead, Felen.”

“Are you honestly trying to be mad _and_ flirting with me at the same time?” he snapped. The pain from his leg was messing with his ability to think things without saying them.

“And why not? I'm very talented when it comes to multi-tasking.” Dorian's glare had finally receded, leaving behind a much more troubling look of concern.

This was too confusing to deal with at the moment. He didn't need to think about _why_ Dorian was flirting with him, or angry that he was hurt, or any of this nonsense. Besides, Dorian flirted with _everyone_.

“No, what are you thinking?!” Cullen's voice filled the front of the Chantry, catching his and Dorian's attention.

Firiel was walking towards them, her expression grave. Cullen was following after her, trying to catch her by the arm. Behind them was that strange boy —Cole, he remembered— holding up Chancellor Roderick. Dorian moved aside as she approached.

“Da'mi—“ she began.

“Felen, talk some sense into her—!” Cullen cut in.

Felen was too stunned to react when she took his head into her hands and pressed a hurried kiss to his forehead.

“Da'mi I have to do this. I'm sorry. I love you.”

“What—?” His eyes darted from his twin to Cullen as she pulled away, heading for the Chantry door. What was she—?

“Firiel, no—!” Cullen's voice was choked, and Felen swore he saw tears in his sister's eyes.

“What's going on?” Felen demanded, trying to rise to his feet but Dorian pressed him back down.

“If this is the price to save everyone from this Elder One then I'll pay it gladly,” she said, her eyes darting between her brother and Cullen as she hesitated. “He wants _me_ , and that will buy you the time you need.”

“You can't,” Cullen said, weakly. But he didn't reach out again to stop her.

“I won't let that dark future happen, Cullen. You and the others know his plans, you can stop them without me. But in order to do that _you need to live_.”

“Let me go, Dorian!” Felen tried to stand again, but the mage refused. “Firiel, don't you dare go without me.”

But she just gave him a sad smile before looking at Cullen again. “Keep my brother safe for me. Get everyone out of here.”

“Survive,” Cullen told her. Damn him, why wasn't he stopping her? “Survive and we'll find you. You've beaten impossible odds before, do it again.”

She simply nodded. Why wasn't anyone stopping her?

_Not again. Don't do this to me again._

“Firiel, don't leave me!”

“I love you, Felen,” was all she said, before she slipped out the door and closed it behind her.

Cullen's face was hard when he turned to face them, the guise of the Commander covering whatever he might be feeling. “Get him up,” he said to Dorian, his voice rough. “We need to move.”

Anger kept the tears at bay. “Why didn't you stop her?!”

“Because there are hundreds of men and women here who are counting on us to see them through this,” Cullen said, anger in the harsh look in his eyes but his voice was hollow.


	9. Cullen

They hadn't even finished setting up camp in the small valley before Cullen tried to leave. He was passing the makeshift healers' tent when someone grabbed his arm, jerking him into a halt.

Felen stared him down, his fingers like vices that dug into the gap in his armor. They were of a height, he being tall for an elf. “I'm going with you.”

He glanced down at the elf's leg. The arrow had been tended to, but red was already blossoming on the thick bandages. “No.”

“Fen'Harel ma halam!” he spat, some kind of curse, clearly. “She's my sister!”

Cullen's eyes narrowed. As if him being her brother would help. As if it would help them find her in the middle of this bloody snowstorm that had blown in, making an already difficult task nearly impossible. If she had even made it out of Haven. Blessed Andraste, he had cursed himself with every step he had taken from Haven, for leaving her there alone. But she was right. They needed to press on.

“You're still wounded,” Cullen said, biting back crueler things that wanted to pass his lips. He sighed. “She told me to keep you safe.”

That seemed to suck the rage right out of him. His shoulders slumped, and his hold on him weakened. Cullen pulled his arm out of the elf's grasp and kept walking. Felen didn't follow.

“What are you doing up?” he heard Dorian say behind him. “I walk away for five minutes and you've got yourself bleeding again!”

There was a pause. Maybe Felen muttered something, because he heard Dorian give an outraged noise.

“Fasta vass! You stubborn mule! _Sit down_!”

He understood Felen. He was certain he'd go mad if he stood still for too long, stopped to _think_. As long as he kept moving, kept pressing forward, kept _doing_ , it felt like there was still hope.

And on top of it all, his head was throbbing. Every beat of his heart was a pulse of pain from the backs of his eyes to the base of his skull.

At some point on his way out of camp Cassandra had fallen into step at his side. She was going to help him search, or make sure he didn't get himself killed by pushing himself too far. Probably both. They didn't speak. They knew why they were there.

The snowfall had lightened, but now the snow was thick on the ground as they fought their way back up the mountain —towards Haven. If she had made it out, there was only one way she could come.

His head ached, his legs burned from effort, and his face felt raw from the icy wind that cut through them. It was as though sheer force of will was keeping him on his feet. He wondered if Cassandra felt as exhausted as he did.

_I should have kissed her when I had the chance._

Cullen grit his teeth and shoved the thought away.

_I'll make Samson and his master pay for this._

That was better. The anger helped him press on.

“ _Cullen_ ,” Cassandra said, loudly as though repeating herself. Was she repeating herself? With the wind whipping past his ears and his attention buried in his own thoughts, it was likely he hadn't heard her.

He blinked and glanced over at her, brushing snow off his eyelashes.

“You need to be careful,” she said, firmly but slowly, as though she was trying not to anger him. “We cannot afford to lose you.”

She might as well have said ' _lose you too_ ', because that was what she meant.

“I can't stop yet. I told her I'd find her,” he said, looking up at the crest of the rise where there was a gap in the dark rocks. “We'll have a view down the other side from up there. We can reassess our situation from there.”

It was a pathetic excuse, but it served to delay an argument for at least a little longer. He had to keep going. _I told her I'd find her_.

But Cassandra was right. His first responsibility was to the Inquisition. This was why he had tried to pull away in the first place, before he got dragged in too deep. If he let things happen, if he got so wrapped up in someone that he couldn't pull himself free without leaving some part of him behind in the tangles... would he one day have to choose between the Inquisition —the well-being of Thedas— and _her_?

Thankfully, that day was yet to come.

The Maker, it seemed, decided to answer his prayer for once in Cullen's long and trying life.

Maybe, despite her own misgivings and doubts, she really _was_ the Herald of Andraste. How else could she —despite all odds— be there in front of him, falling to her knees in the snow at the sight of them?

Firiel was pale, shaking violently with the cold, and giving him the biggest damn smile he'd ever seen. She started laughing, an edge of hysteria to the sound as it twisted instead into a sob. Cullen was at her side to catch her as she slumped forward with exhaustion and relief. He pulled off his cloak and wrapped her in it as he took her into his arms.

His own exhaustion and the pounding in his head was momentarily forgotten.

She wasn't dressed for this weather; her hands were exposed and as cold as ice as they hunted for warmth in the gaps of his armor. Her face pressed into the side of his neck, the cold of her nose making him jump even as the warm puffs of her breath brushed his throat.

Cullen was distantly aware of Cassandra hovering and pulling off her gloves, tugging them onto Firiel's numb fingers. When she was finished they began the trek back down into the valley.

“You found me,” she said into his skin.

“I told you I would,” he said, tilting his head to press his cheek against hers. For warmth. To protect as much of her from the wind as possible.

The only thing that convinced him that this was really happening, that she was _really_ alive, was the soft weight of her in his arms. Also, the nagging ache that had found its way into all of his limbs.

Cassandra was giving him an odd look. Was he grinning like an idiot? Probably.

“I'm tired,” Firiel murmured, burrowing her face (thankfully she was warmer now) into his throat.

That wiped the smile away. Growing up in Ferelden, he knew the cold. “Stay awake,” he told her, jostling her a bit in his arms.

She grumbled quietly.

“You have to stay awake until we warm you up,” he insisted. “Stay with me. Talk to me. Just a little while longer, Firiel.”

“I don't know what to say,” she said.

He lifted his cheek from hers to straighten his head (the tilt was making him veer off course a bit) and she whined in protest, pressing close again. A small part of him wondered (a part of him that was apparently less worried about her almost freezing to death) if she'd want to be this close to him if it wasn't for the cold. Another part of him didn't care. A final, smaller, quieter part said ' _yes she would'_. He pressed his cheek back against hers and she relaxed. Her shivering was less violent, but she was still trembling.

“Say anything,” he told her. “How did you get out?”

“A cave. I fell into a cave as the avalanche came,” she said. “It was dumb luck.”

Luck. That was something he was familiar with, something he had faith in. Luck was the weight of a coin in his pocket, a promise from his brother Branson.

“Thank you, Cullen.”

“I told you I'd find you.”

“Not for that. Thank you for...” she hesitated, pulling his cloak tighter around her. “Thank you for giving me hope. For helping me believe I could make it out, and that you'd be waiting for me.”

Sometimes it felt like that was all he did. _Wait_ for her. Since she joined the Inquisition it was a pattern of waiting for her to return, or waiting for the next time she'd leave. Waiting for the next time she wanted to tear him away from reports or recruits.

He would wait for her as long as she wanted him to.

“You're welcome.”


	10. Firiel

It was never going to be as simple as just closing the Breach.

She should have known that, even before Redcliffe. Her letter to Keeper Deshanna felt like a lie, thinking back on it.  _ “Once this is done, we'll come home. I promise.” _ Clan Lavellan had thought the two of them held captive by the Inquisition. In a way, it was true. Captive by circumstance, if not by force. Caught up in the fate of the world.

Now she was to fight a would-be-god, a twisted remnant of ancient Tevinter. The Tevinter that had destroyed her people, if what he claimed was true.

_ Mythal give me strength. _

It was midday when she woke. The bustle of the camp outside her tent was a steady drone, voices blending together into indistinguishable noise. Someone close —inside the tent— was humming softly. Someone else was holding her hand. There was pressure against her hip.

Felen, she remembered. He had refused to leave her side once Cullen and Cassandra brought her back to camp. He, Dorian (that was curious, watching Dorian tailing her brother), and Cullen had lingered while the healers helped warm her back up and finally gave their blessing for her to get some sleep.

Not that her brother let her. At least, not at first. He spent the first few minutes scolding her in low tones —if it wasn't for the thinness of the tents he would have been shouting, she was certain. Then once he had thoroughly chastised her, he started to cry. He must have been holding it in since the last time she saw him, waiting until the immediate danger had passed. They were alike in that way, holding it in until it was safe to finally let themselves  _ feel _ it.

That was when Dorian and Cullen excused themselves.

After having a good cry herself (seeing Felen cry always made her cry, too) she fell asleep with her brother seated beside her bed, holding her hand. As she opened her eyes, she saw that he had fallen asleep with his head pillowed in his arms, folded against her side on the cot. His dark hair had come undone and had fallen into his face.

Sera was seated on a small crate by the tent flap, using the sunlight to examine the red fletching on her arrows. She was humming a song to herself as she straightened and clipped the feathers between a small knife and her thumb, more focused than Firiel had ever seen her outside of combat. When Firiel shifted slightly under the blankets, Sera glanced up and caught her eye. She pocketed her knife, sliding the arrow in her hand back into her quiver.

“You all right, yeah?” Sera asked quietly, standing and moving closer to the cot. She glanced at Felen then back at Firiel. She frowned. “Gave him a right scare. Heard him have a few nasty words with Cullen before he found you.”

“I'm fine now,” she said. She had only had an assortment of scrapes and bruises from her tumble into the cave, nothing that a healing potion couldn't fix. By comparison, her brother was in worse shape than she was. The healers had been tending to those with more life-threatening injuries than his, so he had been given a potion to help the wound enough with the pain and the worst of the bleeding but that was all. She had tried to get Felen to take her potion instead, but he wouldn't have it. “What did he say to Cullen?”

“Dunno, some shite in elven,” she said with a shrug. “Seems stupid to curse someone that don't know the language. If you want to tell them to shove something pointy up their bits you might as well tell them so they _understand_.” Sera wrinkled her nose. “I'd say it was a _stupid_ elfy thing, but Dorian does the same thing.”

It grated a bit, but Firiel knew better than to try to talk to Sera about 'elfy' things. It was easier to ignore it. “Well, if I ever want to say anything rude to you Sera, I'll be sure to do it so you can understand.”

Sera bit back a laugh, grinning at her. “Good, right? Easier for everyone. More honest.”

In a strange way, she had a point. That was Sera in a nutshell, really. (Strange and pointy.)

Her smile faded, growing more serious and contemplative as she glanced down at her feet. “Look. I may not like elves, but I like you and your brother. You're good people. And I  _ like _ good people. So remember that.” Sera looked back up, wrinkling her nose again. “And I'm glad you're back. It's better. For Felen, and you, and everyone. They might not say it to your face, but they were worried, yeah? And not just because of the glowing. But because you're you.”

Sera gave a frustrated noise and turned on her heel, like she was annoyed with herself for saying so much. For her own part, Firiel was actually quite touched. Not that she would tell Sera that, it would probably just annoy her somehow.

The blonde hesitated at the tent flap, glancing over her shoulder. “Solas wanted to talk to you two when you woke up. He tried to barge in here earlier and I told him to piss off.” She grinned. “That's easy enough for anyone to understand, innit?”

Firiel's laughter startled her twin from his sleep.

 

* * *

 

“From _our_ people? Since when have you ever considered yourself as one of us?” Felen snapped, scowling at Solas.

That was hardly the point. Firiel jabbed her brother in the side, making him flinch as they glared at each other like children half their age. “Hush!”

Solas waited, his expression unreadable if not a little cold. “I do not. I speak of course of our common ancestors.”

“But they trust us. Just because the orb might be elven doesn't mean the people will turn against me,” Firiel said, returning to the crux of the matter: Corypheus's orb.

“They have turned against the elves for less,” Solas said simply, and Firiel found herself unable to argue. “But that is not the only reason I wanted to speak with you both. The Inquisition needs a new home, and in finding it, it will strengthen even further the faith they have in you. _You_ in particular, Felen.”

Her brother looked taken aback. “Me?”

“Yes. There is a place in the North where the Inquisition can take root and grow. _You_ can be their guide. They have already begun to look to you, seize this moment and _lead_ them.”

“I still don't understand why you think _I_ should be the one.”

“The alternative is for Firiel to take on that burden. But you want to help her, do you not?”

“Yes, but _she's_ the one they have faith in. I'm just—“

“Her _twin_. More than just a brother. In the eyes of the people, that can be enough. Together, this burden the world has placed on you might be easier to bear, surely.”

“...to the North, you said?”

 

* * *

 

“You should have seen the look on Fenris's face! I wasn't sure if he wanted to kill Hawke or kiss her. Knowing him, probably both.” Varric gave Firiel a wink as he gestured with a bit of hard bread clutched in his hand.

A group of them were gathered around one of the many campfires, enjoying a meal of whatever durable food they'd managed to take with them from Haven. Hopefully they made it to this place Solas spoke of before their supplies ran low; Firiel had no desire to see if bronto meat was palatable.

Sera and Blackwall had claimed Felen about an hour ago, so her twin was somewhere else within the camp. She was sitting with Varric to her left, Cassandra to her right, and Cullen across the fire. Cassandra practically had to drag him away from inventorying supplies in order to get him to eat something. The Commander was sitting obediently, but once he had finished eating he seemed distracted. He kept glancing around as if to see what the rest of the camp was doing.

Cassandra was watching Varric with a mixture of amusement and frustration, in a way that only the Seeker was capable of. Her relationship with Varric was... complicated at best. She clearly enjoyed listening to his stories about Hawke, but it was at odds with her opinions of him personally. “You never told me about that,” she said, eyes narrowing. “And it wasn't in your book.”

Varric let out an exasperated sigh, shaking his head. “If I included every time Hawke made a fool out of herself just to try and get that broody elf to smile, you'd forget the book was supposed to be about her becoming Champion and what happened in Kirkwall. And I didn't exactly think it was relevant to you trying to find her, Seeker.”

She frowned, looking down at the fire. “You did not have to leave  _ all _ of it out,” she muttered.

Varric laughed. Cassandra grimaced and stood, saying something about checking on the progress of packing up the camp. The rank and file members of the Inquisition were preparing to head out first thing in the morning.

As if taking her leaving as permission, Cullen made as if to stand. Varric was quick to notice however, and put a restraining hand on his shoulder. “Now, now, Curly. I was about to get up. You don't want to leave the Herald here all by herself, do you?”

Cullen sank back down onto the crate he was sitting on, eyes darting over to Firiel and back to Varric. “I... well, no. But there are—“

“I think the troops can manage this one without their Commander for a little bit. _Relax_. It's good for you,” Varric said, rising to his feet and brushing off the back of his trousers.

Cullen frowned. “ _ Relaxing _ didn't help us at Haven. If we hadn't been wasting time celebrating—“

The dwarf held up a hand. “I'm going to stop you right there, Curly. It's never a good idea to beat yourself up over what you could have done. I've done plenty of that myself. Tansy, you talk some sense into him, will you?”

Varric gave her a wink before he turned and left. Had he done this on purpose? He was incredibly perceptive, did he suspect that something was going on between her and Cullen? Nothing  _ was _ going on between her and Cullen. At least, not yet. Maybe, once things were more stable, they could talk about it. Their almost-kiss. But right now, lost in the middle of the Frostbacks, wasn't the time.

Cullen sighed and rubbed the back of his neck, brows pulling together in a frown. He looked up as Firiel stood and moved closer, taking Cassandra's vacated seat to his left. “I don't need to be  _ placated _ . We could have done more, been better prepared.” He shook his head, letting his hands fall between his legs as he rested his elbows on his knees. “You should never have had to make that sacrifice.”

She reached out to him without even really stopping to consider what she was doing. She just wanted to comfort him. Her hand curled around his forearm, tugging gently. Startled and a bit confused, Cullen let her pull his arm closer, and watched as she let go and reached for his hand. He gave it to her.

“I'm not trying to placate you, Cullen. But Varric is right. Blaming yourself isn't going to make up for what happened, and it _wasn't_ your fault.”

He looked down at their joined hands (she wished that it wasn't so cold that they had to wear gloves) and a pained expression settled over his features. “You could have died, Firiel.”

_ You  _ did _ die. I didn't see it, but it happened. I couldn't let it happen again.  _ She squeezed his hand. “I didn't.” Had it hurt him letting her go? Had it hurt as much as seeing him at Redcliffe hurt her?  _ “Promise me,” _ she remembered.

He squeezed back. “I won't let that happen again, I promise you. You will not be forced to make that choice again.” His eyes met hers with a fierce, protective look that made her chest ache.

She knew that he would try. She hoped it would be enough.

 


	11. Dorian

Dorian had become accustomed to being a pariah, so it was not without some uncertainty that he accepted Felen's offer to join him, Sera, and Blackwall for a meal. Well, it hadn't been so much of an offer as an annoyed insistence. _“Where are you going? Just eat with us.”_

And how could he say no to such graciousness?

He wasn't quite sure what to make of the Herald's brother. Oh, he was certainly handsome, and a few inches taller than him which took some getting used to. Most elves he was familiar with were shorter. But Felen openly defied every preconception he had of elves, though his experience with them was dreadfully skewed, as Felen had pointed out.

For a time he was certain that the elf hated him. Or at the very least disliked him. And why not? Most people did. It was expected. Now Felen just seemed generally annoyed with his presence. But he never told him to leave him alone, not even when Dorian was fussing over him like a mother hen. ( _Someone_ had to make sure the man didn't get himself killed.) Then he had even seen the man cry, which had startled him more than when he had come to thank him back at Haven. Dorian couldn't imagine that a man such as Felen would allow himself to show that kind of weakness in front of someone he truly disliked. Or perhaps, in the midst of his tirade he had forgotten he and Cullen were there.

Either way, Dorian had seen a side of him he hadn't expected.

And then Felen didn't let him go off by himself to eat. He was still trying to figure out what to make of that.

Blackwall and Sera had given him odd looks when Dorian joined them around the fire. He was certain the Warden didn't trust him, but it was difficult to give much credit to the opinions of a man who probably had fleas and was the very walking definition of a 'hairy lummox'. Sera kept looking at him as though she expected him to start twirling his mustache like a villain and open up veins for blood magic at any moment. Felen noticed and gave her a kick in the shin, which made her call him something so colorful that Blackwall nearly choked on his dinner.

There was that protectiveness again. But why?

With the tension in the air cleared, Sera started in on a lewd story. Blackwall was eating it up, the old pervert, but Felen seemed to be doing his best not to grimace. The elf didn't strike him as the prudish type, so why was he making that face? Granted, Sera's telling was a bit disgustingly enthusiastic.

Sera spotted the look on Felen's face. She gave him a shove. “Oh come off it, don't look like that. Just because you don't fancy girls doesn't mean you can't enjoy a good story.”

 _Oh._ Well that explained quite a lot, didn't it?

“You're just being a little graphic for my tastes,” Felen said, trying his best to sound neutral as he tucked some stray hair behind his ear.

Sera laughed. “Oh, sure, your _tastes_. Fine then, tell us about one of your tastes then, mister prissypants.”

Dorian was expecting Felen to blush right up to his ears, like he did when he teased him (even though it made him angry, the mage still thought it was adorable). Instead he went quiet and looked distinctly uncomfortable. He crossed his arms and rested them on his knees, shrugging his shoulders.

“What, too shy?” she said, laughing again. She was pushing, and Dorian found he didn't much care for it.

“There isn't much to tell,” Felen said.

“Frigging liar! I may not like you boy-types, but I can tell you're nice to look at.”

“He clearly doesn't want to talk about it. Most people _don't_ go describing those things in extravagant detail around a campfire, I can assure you,” Dorian said, frowning. He saw Felen's bright amber eyes flick over to him in surprise.

“Pbtht! No one asked _you_ ,” she said, wrinkling her nose.

“Sera,” Blackwall said carefully.

“ _What?_ ”

“He doesn't have to tell us anything he doesn't want to.”

A more sensible thing than he would have expected from the Warden.

Sera rolled her eyes. “Ugh, _fine_. Then why don't _you_ tell a story.”

“And on _that_ note, I think I shall take my leave,” Dorian said as he rose to his feet, brushing off the back of his robes.

He was more than a little surprised when Felen stood up as well.

“Ugh, fine, _go_. No fun, you two,” Sera said with an annoyed sigh.

“You don't need to leave your friends on my account,” Dorian said, raising an eyebrow as they began walking.

“It's fine, I'd rather not wait for Sera to start pestering me about my 'tastes' any more,” Felen answered with a frown.

The elf had finally had his leg tended to from what Dorian could tell, judging by his lack of a limp or bandages. Probably his sister's doing. At least one of them had gotten the stubborn man to finally let a healer take care of him.

Speaking of _tastes_ , “I don't blame you for wanting more _charming_ company. I've heard I'm a delight to spend time with.”

 _There_ was that flustered blush Dorian liked. It was too easy. Felen rolled his eyes to try and hide it, but Dorian just smiled, a warm feeling spreading in his chest. He could think of a few ways to spend time with this man, the things he could do to him that would have him flushed for _other_ reasons. He'd been complimented by enough men (right before they left) that he was confident in his skills.

There were worse things to do in the middle of the frigid mountains while they waited until morning. At least they'd be warm.

“And just how many people have you charmed?” Felen asked, annoyed.

A loaded question if he had ever heard one. For a moment he was inclined to exaggerate, but that strategy wouldn't work in this situation, he was sure. He wasn't quite sure _what_ the situation was, if he was perfectly honest. Was Felen trying to feel him out? Testing the waters? The wrong answer could cause a rift between them, he could tell that much at least.

Perhaps it would be best to be a little more honest. Just a little. “One less than I would like,” he said, his voice canted low.

Felen's blush darkened, painting up his long ears. Biting his lip, he refused to meet Dorian's gaze. “Is this easy for you? Saying these things. _Flirting_ with everyone.”

“I object, surely not _everyone._ Just the attractive ones, and ones less likely to stab me if the Vint looks at them funny,” he deflected, spreading his hands and shrugging.

The flirting was easier here in the South, it was true. Less worrying about who might notice and start spreading (more) rumors. Back home it was a delicate game of trying to figure out who might actually be interested without garnering too much unwanted attention from the wrong people. But the way Felen said it was more of an accusation. If the two of them had been more familiar he might think the elf was jealous, but that surely wasn't the case.

Felen stopped outside of a tent —the tent he was sharing with his sister, Dorian realized— and turned to face him. His expression was closed, despite the flush still staining his cheeks. “What is it you want, Dorian?”

He blinked. He hadn't quite expected him to be so blunt, and was taken aback. Something shifted in the elf's expression as he hesitated, as if his silence was telling him something. But in truth, he wasn't sure how to answer that question. Sex would certainly be nice, but that wasn't quite an honest answer.

“I'm afraid you have me at a bit of a loss,” he admitted, quietly.

“Well when you figure it out, let me know.”

And then Felen just went inside the tent. Leaving him outside in the cold. Alone.

The _gall_.

Dorian was determined to have that man crying his name before the Inquisition got one or both of them killed.


	12. Felen

Skyhold was magnificent, in spite of the obvious repairs that needed to be done. True to Solas's word, the castle was the perfect new home for the Inquisition. The day after their arrival and after much discussion, Felen was named as the Inquisitor.

Leliana and Josephine had tried to insist that Firiel become the Inquisitor; that the faith people had in her made her the stronger candidate. Cullen and Cassandra however argued for Felen instead, insisting that he was better suited for the added stresses of leadership. Finally they reached a sort of compromise: that Firiel would symbolically name Felen as the Inquisitor during a small ceremony in the courtyard. She parroted words carefully written by Josephine, and effectively the twins were to lead the Inquisition together.

There had also been some debate over bedrooms. There was one particularly extravagant room at the top of Skyhold's tallest tower, complete with balconies. Felen tried to get Firiel to take it, but she insisted that he have it. She didn't want people to get the wrong idea, and that the leader of the Inquisition should be the one to occupy the tower. There was a room under his that —while smaller to accommodate the staircase that led to the top— was in good shape, so she took that one instead. Felen had to pass her door on his way to and from the great hall, which suited him fine. At least she was still close.

Bedrooms, beds, _privacy_... these were things that Felen wasn't quite used to. Being Dalish and living a life constantly on the move, you learned to live in close proximity to everyone. He hadn't ever really had a place that was _his_ and his alone. Until they started hitting puberty, he and Firiel had slept curled up together in the same blankets.

Now he had a room that was big enough for three or four Dalish families to sleep in, all for himself. It made him uncomfortable, at first.

The bedroom wasn't the only thing that made him uncomfortable. Becoming Inquisitor, _leading_ these people... the responsibility was daunting. All of a sudden, he had people coming to him, asking him to make decisions, and he had to trust in himself to make the right ones. Growing up beside Firiel, once she began her training as the Keeper's First, he _knew_ that eventually she would lead the clan. He thought that maybe one day he would lead the clan's hunters, but he would still ultimately report to her. The tables had turned in a way he had never expected.

They had been in Skyhold for a few days when Felen made his way down the tower's many steps and into the great hall, where a few long, old wooden tables and benches had been set up. Their inner circle had claimed the table nearest the door to the tower as theirs, whenever they were inclined to eat together. Currently only Firiel and Varric were there, sharing a breakfast of toast with butter and jam, and a healthy serving of oatmeal between them. His sister was dunking her jam-covered toast into the oatmeal before taking a bite, which Varric was watching with amusement.

“I don't think I've ever seen anyone do that before, Tansy. Is that how the Dalish eat oatmeal?”

Felen fell onto the bench at his sister's side, nudging her with his shoulder. “Don't go assuming the rest of us are that disgusting, that is _all_ Firiel.”

Firiel wrinkled her nose as she watched him snatch up her unused spoon and poke around for some oatmeal that hadn't been mixed with jam. “No, what's disgusting is plain, bland, mushy oatmeal.”

“Then why eat it at all?” Varric asked with a bemused smile.

“Because it's good for you.” She dunked her toast into the bowl again, pushing towards Felen's spoon —on purpose, he was certain. He nudged her again with an annoyed noise. She let out an amused snort. “And it's tastes _good_ with jam.”

“ _Disgusting_ ,” Felen insisted.

Varric started to laugh, shaking his head. “And here they are, the leaders of the Inquisition. I'm sure you'll be a treat at the Orlesian dinner parties.”

His sister blanched, her hand holding her toast freezing above the bowl. A blob of oatmeal slid off the bread and back into the bowl with a wet _plop_. “Dinner parties? Aren't we a bit busy trying to save the world?”

“I'm sure he's just joking,” Felen said, placating her with a pat to her shoulder.

“Don't bet on it,” Varric said, raising an eyebrow. He took a big bite of his own toast (butter only) before continuing. “Ruffles is hard at work making connections with anyone that will talk to us, considering we can use all the help we can get. I wouldn't be surprised if that included some appearances by the Herald and Inquisitor.”

“Wonderful,” Firiel mumbled, sighing and taking a big bite of her oatmeal and toast.

Varric looked suddenly thoughtful, looking down at a folded bit of parchment he had tucked under his hand. “Speaking of _appearances_ ,” he said quietly, glancing around the great hall. He leaned in towards the table slightly. “I sent a letter to a friend when we got to Skyhold, and I just got her reply this morning. She and I... have some experience with Corypheus. They're going to be here in about two weeks.”

“ _They_? Varric, who's coming?” Felen asked.

Varric sighed. “Shit, promise me you won't tell Cassandra. She's going to be pissed enough as it is once they get here. Knowing Hawke, she isn't going to keep her presence at Skyhold exactly a secret.”

Firiel gasped and quickly covered her mouth with her hand, eyes wide. Then, her eyes narrowed and she leaned forward, voice lowered. “Cassandra is going to _kill_ you.”

“Not if I can help it,” the dwarf grumbled. “I wouldn't even be getting her involved unless I thought it was absolutely necessary. She's been through enough, getting caught up in the Inquisition is the last thing she needs. No offense,” he added as an afterthought.

“You said 'they'. Who's coming with her?” Felen asked, repeating himself.

Varric sighed again. “Fenris. I tried to tell her to get him to stay behind, but he wasn't having it.” He unfolded the letter under his hand, running his finger down the paper towards the bottom where Felen could see a distinctly different hand had written a note below Hawke's signature. The handwriting was a little large, and messy as though written by a child. It read: _If you ever try to tell Hawke to leave me behind again I will personally feed you your intestines, dwarf._ 'Intestines' had been misspelled twice and crossed out.

“He seems charming,” Felen said, brow raised.

“He doesn't _completely_ mean it,” Varric said, unconvincingly. “And speaking of Fenris, you're going to have to keep Sparkler away from him as much as possible.”

“Why?”

The dwarf raised an eyebrow. “I thought you _read_ the book? I know I didn't go into much detail, mostly for Fenris's privacy, but I know that it was mentioned multiple times that he used to be a slave. From _Tevinter_.”

“So you're saying he'd have something against Dorian? Just because he's from Tevinter?” Felen asked.

Varric gave him an impatient look, as if he couldn't believe what he was hearing. “Not just because he's from Tevinter. Because he's the son of a Magister. A mage. The type of person that kept slaves, even if he didn't have any personally.

“Look, I know Broody. I've been his friend for ten years. And don't get me wrong, I like Sparkler, and I just don't want to see either of them get into a fight. So I'm warning the two of you: keep Dorian away from Fenris.”

“Don't worry, we'll help,” Firiel said, glancing at her twin. “Won't we?”

“If you're confident that one of them might get hurt, then yes. Of course,” Felen said. “We'll do our best to keep the peace.”

Varric scoffed, then gave a humorless chuckle. “I don't know about _peace_ but I'd prefer not to see any of my new friends get their hearts ripped from their chests. _Literally_.”

* * *

 

Felen spent much of his free time getting to know his way around Skyhold. For the moment, while the Inquisition settled into its new home, there wasn't much to do. They needed more information before they could plan their next move, and gathering information took time. Unfortunately they couldn't just walk up to Empress Celene and tell her that Corypheus was planning on murdering her, no matter how much simpler it would be. They also weren't sure how Corypheus was planning on getting his hands on the demon army they were told about at Redcliffe.

So in the meantime, Felen was getting lost in the lower levels of Skyhold. It was helpful in order to avoid Dorian, who had been popping up where the elf least expected him. His attempts at flattery and flirtation were getting more and more bold, to the point that Felen was worried the mage was going to get him to do something incredibly foolish. Dorian's coy smirk alone was enough to have him blush merely out of anticipation, much to the mage's growing delight, it seemed. And to Felen's dismay, the other man just seemed to redouble his efforts.

Creators, if he kept this up he really _was_ going to do something foolish. Felen could barely tolerate the playful teasing, the way Dorian canted his voice low into a purr, the way his gray eyes glinted as he watched him get flustered and agitated. He had even started dreaming about him, leaving him painfully aroused and trembling when he woke up. Two mornings in a row now he'd had to take himself in hand just to get some relief.

He had told Dorian to let him know when he knew what he wanted, was this his way of telling him?

He didn't trust Dorian to take anything between them seriously. He was charming and flirtatious, and in his —albeit limited— experience that meant he just wanted to use him. Heat twisted low in his stomach at the thought. Creators would that really be so bad? It had been too long since the last time he'd been with someone, what did it matter if it wasn't anything more than physical? Especially with someone as attractive as Dorian.

As if thinking about him had summoned him into being, Felen found Dorian in the dark, dusty library hidden in Skyhold's belly. He was sitting in an old, high-backed chair with a book in one hand and a small orb of flame in the other, using the light to read by. With his attention on the book, he flexed and twirled his fingers, sending the tongue of fire dancing between the nimble digits and sliding across his palm.

Felen's approach made him look up, and much to the elf's surprise, the mage jumped slightly at the sight of him, making the flame surge to life for a moment before extinguishing suddenly. The rapid change in light made him blink, but thankfully there were other lit torches in the room.

Dorian closed his book, rising to his feet and setting it on the now-vacated seat. “Inquisitor,” he said, regaining his composure. “I wasn't expecting to see you down here. Forgive me for being a tad jumpy, I keep forgetting how elven eyes catch the light sometimes. I thought for a moment a giant cat had gotten loose in the castle.”

“No, just me,” Felen answered, amused. Sometimes it was reassuring to see Dorian caught off-guard for once. “Sorry to disappoint.”

The mage chuckled, his laugh trailing off into a delighted hum. “Oh no, how could I ever be disappointed with you?”

And there it was. The smirk, the way Dorian's voice went low and smooth. The sound went straight to the heat in his belly, stoking it even as he felt himself flush _too_ easily. Frowning, Felen glanced over at a bookshelf to distract himself.

But the mage was having none of that. He sidled up to the warrior and placed himself directly in his line of sight, cupping his elbow with one hand and tapping his chin with the other. “If I didn't know any better I'd think you were _looking_ for me. Did you miss me, Inquisitor?” Dorian purred out the title. He'd started using it instead of his name the moment he'd been given it.

Felen wrinkled his nose. “I know you're enamored with the title, Dorian, but can you _please_ just call me by my name?”

“It's not the _title_ I'm enamored with,” he said. Felen cursed himself for his own choice of words as his face burned. The mage chuckled. “And you never answered my question.”

“I wasn't looking for you, I was just exploring the castle,” Felen grumbled, looking away again.

“And you found _me_ , you must be delighted.” Dorian was standing so close Felen could smell his distinct scent of sandalwood and vanilla. He had to fight the urge to bury his nose in the crook of his neck.

The warrior groaned, a sound equal parts annoyance and arousal. “Dorian...” he growled in a warning tone.

But the mage wasn't deterred, if anything the sound just made his smile widen and turn predatory. “That _look_ , Inquisitor. Are you quite certain you aren't some manner of beast that has sneaked into the castle to gobble up unsuspecting mages?”

“Stop teasing me, Dorian,” Felen said, frustrated with the way his voice sounded as strained as his breeches.

Dorian's eyebrows raised, and the warrior could see that his pupils were blown wide not just from the dim light. When the mage spoke, his voice was husky in a way he wasn't sure was entirely deliberate. “Who said anything about teasing? I'm not dangling a biscuit over your nose, I've just been offering, and waiting for you to _take_.”

With a growl that surprised himself, Felen dug his fingers into the front of Dorian's ridiculous, over-complicated clothes and pulled the mage into a bruising kiss. Dorian made a low groan of approval that went straight to Felen's pelvis as the human pressed willingly against his body.

“Void take you,” Felen growled low against Dorian's lips before seizing them again, uncurling one hand from his robes and burying his fingers into the back of the mage's hair. He then pulled back Dorian's head to expose the column of his throat, trailing kisses and shallow bites, careful not to leave any marks as much as part of him wanted to.

A breathy groan escaped from the mage. “I'd rather _you_ take me,” he said, cut off by a gasp as Felen sunk his teeth into the crook of his neck to make him stop talking.

“You talk too much,” he said, pressing an open-mouthed kiss into the spot he had just bitten.

“I thought you liked my voice. It makes you blush often enou-aah!” Dorian hissed through his teeth as Felen dragged his tongue up his throat. He gave a throaty chuckle as the warrior kissed along his jaw, still holding him by his hair. “You're the one saying things that are so easy to twist around in the first place.”

Dorian pressed up against him as their lips met in another hungry kiss. The mage snaked an arm around to Felen's backside and took a firm handful, eliciting a groan. Taking advantage of the warrior's parted lips, Dorian took sweeping tastes of his mouth with his hot tongue. His free hand raised to cup Felen's cheek. Fingers brushed along the elf's long ear, making him shudder and rock his hips.

“Inquisitor Lavellan?” The voice echoed through the stone hallways, faint but clear enough to understand the words.

Dorian sprung away from Felen as though burned, running his hands over his clothing and hair to tidy them both. The warrior just watched, dumbfounded, as the mage —despite his shuddering breaths— looked over the elf and straightened his clothing for him before picking his book back up and collapsing gracefully back into the chair. Though he was fuzzy from lust and he had half a mind to pin Dorian to the chair and continue what he had been doing, Felen wondered why Dorian seemed so practiced at quickly hiding all evidence of their activities.

He felt as though a rug had been pulled out from under him, disoriented and feeling a little lost as he looked at Dorian, down the hall where he thought the voice had come from, and back to Dorian again. How did he seem so unaffected?

His worries were squashed, however, when those gray eyes looked up and caught his, twinkling as he flashed a smug grin. “Don't look so put out, my dear Inquisitor,” he said, his voice still husky as he spoke to him in low tones. He made a playful shooing gesture with one hand. “Duty calls, but you know where I'll be. And I do love watching you go.”

 


	13. Firiel

Her brother was looking distinctly ruffled when Firiel saw him enter the great hall, casting a stern look at the back of Jim's head as he followed the messenger. Oh, on the surface Felen looked properly composed, but she could see the lingering color on his cheeks and ears, the slight wobble in his steps. What happened?

She rose to meet them as they approached her, casting her brother a questioning look. He avoided her eyes.

“Herald. Inquisitor. Commander Cullen asked me to bring you both to him if you have a moment. He said he had something important he wished to discuss with you,” Jim said.

Felen stared at the wall, chewing the inside of his lip.

“Is he in his office?” Firiel asked.

Jim nodded. “Yes, your worship.”

“Tell him we'll be along in a moment, I'd like to have a word with my brother first.”

Felen's head jerked towards her. Jim hesitated a moment, but then gave another stiff nod, along with a salute.

“Of course, your worship,” he said, turning on his heel and heading for the rotunda.

After the man was out of earshot, Firiel caught her brother's eye and raised an eyebrow. Felen pointedly glanced away.

“What?” he asked, petulantly.

“What's got you all flushed?”

“ _Nothing_.”

“Well aren't you just absolutely _lying_.” She never knew why either of them bothered to try and lie to each other. It never worked. Ever. “Smooth down those hackles and just talk to me, Felen.”

He sighed, running his hand over his hair absently. His eyes flicked back to hers. A frown settled over his face and he rubbed his mouth.

“What happened?” she pressed.

“Dorian,” he said in an undertone.

Her eyebrows shot up. She knew that the two of them had been bickering, and Felen had been trying to avoid him, but... “You got into a fight with Dorian?” she asked him, hardly believing it.

“What? Creators, Firiel, what do you take me for?” Caught off guard by her question, he blurted out, “Honestly, that couldn't be any further from the truth.”

“Further from the truth? What could be further than a fight...?” Firiel's eyes widened as her hand flew to her mouth, unable to hide her smile. “ _Oh!_ Felen _really?_ ” She hesitated as his cheeks darkened. Her fingers curled and she tapped her lips with her knuckles. “What, down in the lower levels? Where anyone could walk in on you?”

“Firiel can you _please_ stop jumping to conclusions,” Felen grated, rubbing his forehead. “We just... _kissed_. Besides. It... it won't happen again.”

“What? Why not?” she asked, frowning and lowering her hand.

It was his turn to look surprised. “What do you mean, 'why not'? It's a terrible idea.” Felen frowned, sighing. “Besides, it's not like it could ever be anything serious with him. _You've_ seen the way he acts.”

“You don't know that for certain. Don't miss out on something good just for the fear things might not turn out the way you want them to.” Firiel took hold of his arm, looking up at her brother with affection. She didn't think she could ever forgive that boy that broke his heart when they were sixteen. Almost ten years later and that hurt had never had the chance to completely heal. “I like Dorian.”

“He's cocky, arrogant, completely full of himself—“

“He's _gorgeous_ and you _like him_.”

“...Fenedhis.”

* * *

 

Cullen was hunched over his desk when they entered, a long wooden box open between his hands. Firiel saw the telltale blue glow of lyrium from within it, and for a moment she wondered if they were interrupting something. His head was bowed. Tired, warm brown eyes flicked up at the sound of the door.

“Herald. Inquisitor,” he said, hesitating before he spoke. Even though they were in private, he was calling her by her title. Clearly this was some Inquisition matter; he tended to fall into formalities when addressing her as his superior.

 _That_ was still incredibly strange.

“Now that the two of you are leading the Inquisition, there's...” Cullen sighed, steeling himself. He pressed back from his desk, resting his hands on the pommel of his sword. “There's something I must tell you.”

Firiel saw Felen glance at her from the corner of her eye. He cleared his throat. “Whatever it is, you can tell us.”

Cullen's eyes flicked away from Firiel's to acknowledge her brother, giving him a nod before returning his attention to her. “Right. Thank you.” His jaw clenched, and he looked down at the lyrium on his desk. “How much do you know about Templars and lyrium?”

“It gives you your abilities, doesn't it? It's what lets you counter magic,” Firiel said, finding her voice.

The human gave a slow nod, pressing his hands back on the top of his desk. He settled his weight onto his arms. He stared at the little box, at the carved woman —Andraste?— inside. “It also controls us, _binds_ _us_ to the Chantry. Those cut off suffer —some go mad, others die. We have secured a reliable source of lyrium for the Templars here. But I...” he hesitated, and Firiel saw his throat bob as he swallowed, “No longer take it.”

Felen made a small huff of surprise and Firiel's stomach twisted. But he just said that not taking lyrium could hurt him!

“You stopped?” Felen blurted out, before she could say anything.

“When I joined the Inquisition. It's been months now,” Cullen answered, still staring down at his desk.

“But _why_? You just said this could kill you,” Firiel took a step towards him without even meaning to, her hands balling into fists at her stomach.

“It hasn't yet,” he said, emotionless. His fingers curled slightly. He swallowed again. “After what happened in Kirkwall, I couldn't...” Cullen finally looked up at her, frowning. “I will _not_ be bound to the Order —or that life— any longer. Whatever the suffering, I accept it.” Straightening again, he seemed more determined as he continued to speak. “But I would not put the Inquisition at risk. I've asked Cassandra to... watch me. If my ability to lead is compromised, I will be relieved from duty.”

“I don't...” Firiel shook her head, clenching her jaw. “I don't care about that. Are you all right?”

He sighed, but a tiny smile flickered at the corners of his mouth. “You _should_ ,” he admonished gently. “You should worry about the capabilities of the man leading your forces. But to answer your question: I can endure it.”

She wished that he didn't have to. But there was a part of her that was glad to see him break this bond that tied him to the Templars. That he was fully and truly putting that life behind him as much as he could.

“Thank you for telling us, Cullen,” Felen said, and she was surprised to hear the admiration in his voice. “I respect what you're doing.”

“Thank you, Inquisitor,” he said, giving her twin a nod. “The Inquisition's army must always take priority. Should anything happen... I will defer to Cassandra's judgment.”

“I know it should take priority, but...” Felen glanced at her, smiling weakly. “I know that there's someone that would be, ah, more than a little upset if something happened to you. So take care of yourself.”

Cullen's eyebrows shot up in surprise as Firiel felt her cheeks warm. The human glanced away, rubbing the back of his neck. “I, uh... well. I will. Of course.”

“Was there anything else we should know, Commander?” Felen asked, as if he hadn't just reduced the two of them to blushing. He was fighting a losing battle against a wry smirk that she wanted to wipe off his face.

“Ah, no, Inquisitor. That was all,” Cullen managed to say, distracting himself by snapping the lyrium kit closed and stowing it away in a drawer.

Felen turned to excuse him, pausing long enough to give her a meaningful look before leaving. Even without words, what he said was clear: _Talk to him._

Cullen had been so busy since they'd arrived at Skyhold they hadn't had much time to spend together. Most days he didn't even remember to come to the great hall to eat with everyone, distracted by one thing or another. He spared her a few minutes if she pestered him long enough, but he was determined —too determined, she felt— to get the castle's defenses repaired. The events of Haven seemed to haunt his steps, still.

He was looking at her after she watched her brother leave. She noticed, then, the faint shadows under his eyes, and the way the scruff on his face was longer than it should have been. “I'm sure you have other matters to attend to. And I should—“

Firiel was rounding the desk as he spoke. He cut himself short when she gave him a stern look. “When is the last time you had a break, Cullen?”

He blinked as he scrambled for an answer. “You mean before right now?”

She bit back a scoff. _Honestly._ “Yes.”

“Ah. Well. Yesterday, I think... or was it...?” He was rubbing the back of his neck, avoiding her eyes.

“If you can't even tell me _when_ , I think you're overdue.”

He frowned, head still turned away, looking down at the papers scattered over his desk. “I understand your concern, but I really should—“

Her fingers slid across the prickly scruff of his jaw, pressing gently to turn his head. Cullen's words died at her touch, allowing himself to follow the pressure of her hand and meet her eyes again. He cleared his throat as his cheeks colored, looking away and back again with a hint of embarrassment. How was it he could be so composed and commanding nearly all the time, but so endearingly awkward with her? He could lead an army, but _she_ made him nervous.

Firiel's thumb brushed his face, coming dangerously close to the corner of his mouth. Catching herself, she pulled her hand slowly away. Cullen watched it go. For a moment his hand moved as if to snatch it up, but he didn't.

“Come take a walk with me,” she said, latching onto the first idea that popped into her head. Anything to break the silence that was heavy in the room. “Get some air.”

He hesitated, as if trying to come up with an argument.

“We haven't had much time together, not like we used to. Please, Cullen.”

“I, well, I mean... When you put it that way, how can I refuse?”

Firiel smiled up at him, which he returned with some embarrassment. “You can't. Come on, we can walk the ramparts. If it makes you feel better you can pretend you're surveying the progress on our defenses.”

That managed to elicit a warm chuckle. “I think I can give you my full attention.”

“Good, I was sort of hoping to talk to you, anyway.”


	14. Cullen

Cullen had an inkling of what she wanted to talk to him about. He supposed it had been a long time coming, and if he was honest with himself he had been avoiding her. Not out of any sort of malice, but there were just too many other things he needed to attend to. It was easy to convince himself that her safety was more important. Whatever was going on between them would have to wait.

It seemed that Firiel had finally tired of waiting.

But —Maker take him— he floundered in her presence. He was unsure of what to say to broach the awkward silence that swallowed them. Hadn't she said she wanted to talk to him about something? Why didn't she just come out and say it and spare him from this?

Glancing over at her as they walked, it was easy to ignore the familiar ache behind his eyes. Her presence was enough to soothe him, even as he ached to reach out and touch her. To hold her for no reason other than to feel her against him, to hear a soft sigh of happiness. To finally,  _finally_ , kiss her.

His eyes darted away as Firiel's yellow eyes sought him out, knowing that his face was reddening. "It's a nice day," he fumbled, desperate to fill the silence. The last word ended in something of an awkward chuckle that he choked back.

The mage raised a dark brow, coming to a halt and turning to him. "Yes," she agreed, drawing out the word.

Maker's breath, this was terrible. What was he doing? "It's... there was something you wished to discuss?"

It was her turn to glance away, the rich olive color of her skin darkening with a blush. She brought her hands together over her stomach then dropped them again. "I don't want to keep pretending like there's not something going on between us. I care about you, Cullen, and I haven't forgotten that we almost kissed back in Haven."

Cullen rubbed the back of his neck. She certainly had a way of getting right to the point when she wanted to.

She hesitated, then looked at him. Her eyes searched his face for his reaction. Whatever she found must have been unsatisfactory, because she chewed her lip, gaze falling. "Unless you don't want to anymore," she said, her voice soft.

"I do," he said quickly, cursing himself. "Want to, that is. I, Firiel, you..."

He was so terrible at this. He had always been terrible. It had been so long since he wanted anyone in his life the way he wanted her, and he had no idea how to tell her that. Cullen reached up to his face and grimaced, taking a few steps further down the battlements. He needed space, a moment to collect himself.

She followed him. "Then what's stopping you?"

She put herself between him and the outer wall, her back to one of the merlons. It would be so easy to press her against it.

What was stopping him? Sometimes, it felt like  _everything_  was stopping him. Where could he even start?

"You're the Herald of Andraste, we're at war, it wouldn't be..."  _Wise. Smart. Easy. Safe._  He was inching closer to her without realizing it, leaning forward. "I didn't think it was possible."

Firiel was looking up at him with a heat in her eyes that seemed to challenge him. Her lips parted, head tilted up towards his. He focused on those lips as she spoke. "It's possible," she said, voice dipping in a way that stirred something low in his gut. "It's been possible for weeks, Cullen. Please, don't make me wait any longer."

 _Maker_. How could he resist that? He didn't  _want_  to. "It feels like tempting fate," he murmured, moving closer. Firiel tilted her head, pupils wide and dark as she gazed up at him through heavy lashes. He moved slowly, giving her the chance to refuse or turn her head away. "But I want to..."

Reaching out, he took gentle hold of her waist as she rested her hands back against the merlon. As his eyes slipped shut and he leaned forward, he heard a door open and shut. "Commander," came a familiar, and entirely  _unwanted_  voice.

Cullen's eyes snapped open, meeting Firiel's for a moment. She was biting her lips, eyes crinkled as she trembled with contained laughter. His jaw clenched. How could this happen  _twice_? What were the odds? Her chin fell to her chest as he leaned back, looking away from him in obvious embarrassment.

He stared straight ahead, refusing to move his hands from Firiel's waist as Jim continued to speak. "You wanted a copy of Sister Leliana's report."

It would be faster to address him and send him away. Cullen released Firiel and turned towards the messenger, gritting his teeth. "What?" he snapped, nearly growling.

Jim gestured with the papers in his hand. "Sister Leliana's report. You wanted it delivered 'without delay.'"

Cullen leaned in close, eyes narrowing. Confused, Jim blinked up at him. But Cullen waited, watching as the messenger glanced over his shoulder. He could see when realization dawned on the man. 

Jim took a step back, abashed. "Or... to your office... right..." he stammered, backpedaling.

Cullen watched him go. Once the messenger was out of sight, he turned back to Firiel. She was still leaning back against the curtain wall, but she was hanging her head, looking defeated. Did she really think he was going to let an interruption stop him again?

She glanced up for a moment as he approached her. "Cullen, if you need to—"

 _Not again_. Cullen reached out and curled his hand behind her neck, pulling her towards him as he rushed forward to meet her. She let out a muffled noise of surprise as he caught her lips with his, slipping his other hand around her waist. He pulled her closer against him. For a moment she froze, then melted at his touch, pressing back against him. He was distantly aware of her fingers twisting into the furred mantle around his shoulders. She tugged.

Cullen tilted his head down to break the kiss, realizing too late how...  _forceful_  he had been. He needed to apologize, that hadn't been like him. "I'm sorry," he breathed, opening his eyes to look at her. She was searching his face, lids heavy, lips parted.  _Maker's breath._  "That was... um... really nice."

 _Smooth, Rutherford,_ he thought, cringing inward.  _Ah, but honest._

"I thought..." Firiel swallowed, her gaze darting between his eyes and his mouth. "I thought for sure you were going to run off again."

The corner of his mouth tugged up into a teasing smile. He pretended to pull away. "If you'd like, I can—"

Her grip on his mantle tightened, making his chest flutter with warmth. "Don't you dare. You are staying right here and you are going to kiss me again."

He was more than happy to oblige.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in chapters, updates are slowing down a little bit due to life and other games. ;) You guys can always come check out my Tumblr at onadacora.tumblr.com to keep up with me between updates.


End file.
